


Big Iron

by Dan_Francisco



Series: War Stories [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anarchists Abound, F/M, Horrors of War, Spanish Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 06:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dan_Francisco/pseuds/Dan_Francisco
Summary: Jesse McCree is an outlaw, on the run from Arizona justice. One day, while hiding out in a small Texas town, he encounters a strange woman, offering him a chance for something greater. All he has to do is follow her band of misfits on their way to the escalating civil war in Spain.





	1. Sleeping on the Blacktop

Jesse McCree's M1917 revolver felt heavier than usual in its holster, slapping against his hip as he strolled into Lubbock, Texas. It wasn't exactly his first choice for a town to spend a night in, but it was just big enough that nobody would look twice, but not big enough that the police would think to look there first. He gave those federal cops credit – they didn't like to give up when they thought they had a man's trail. McCree had been on the run longer than he had thought plausible, drifting from town to town for over three months and – occasionally when he needed the cash to get a little farther – robbing folk who deserved it. The road from Arizona had been long and hard, but Texas was proving to be full of promise so far.

 

Rolling into Lubbock, he kept his hat low. Wanted posters had already been distributed in the town for his face, or at least the best sketch artist's interpretation of it. Bars almost never asked questions, and usually they'd have hotels either nearby or integrated into them. Either way, he had been on the road too long. Time to put up his feet and relax a spell. The local dive was typical, for 1890 maybe. It was the perfect place to slip away and disappear from the world for a while.

 

The bartender didn't even glance twice at McCree as he asked for a bottle of whiskey, sliding down a bottle of Gilbey's and a shot glass. Thank God for the end of Prohibition. McCree popped open the bottle, pouring himself a shot in celebration of alcohol's renewed legality.

“Hey, barkeep,” McCree asked, barely taking his eyes off his drink. “You know of any decent places for a fella to spend a night or two?”

“Continental will get ya set up right,” he answered. “This old place has got a few rooms if you don't mind the smell of beer.”

He had seen the Continental on his way in. Looked alright. Just a touch obvious for him, though. “What's the price for a room here?”

“Three dollars a night. Continental'll run you four a night.”

 

Shit, $3 a night was steep. Well, wasn't much his money anyway. He could spare six bucks. Another dollar for the whiskey, that'd set him back seven dollars total. Crying shame that kind of cash didn't get you this far these days. He remembered when he was 14, seven dollars could get you pretty far. Hell, that was about the time he had pulled his first robbery, helping someone way more experienced – and dangerous – than him knock over a local branch bank. He had been in charge of keeping the horses ready for a quick escape, and for that one, everything went smoothly. _If only the same could be said about every job._

 

The double doors creaked open, but McCree wasn't inclined to look up to see who it was. Either the law had caught up to him, which was unlikely, or it was some local face, who didn't need to see McCree's. Sounded like two people, judging from the uneven cadence that could only mean two pairs of boots walking on the old hardwood floor. Bartender must have found something far more interesting to do, his steps fading away just as quickly as the two newcomers arrived. So, either he had been caught by the feds, or these people were bad news. On instinct, his right hand glided down to his revolver, where cold steel and wood greeted him.

 

“Jesse McCree,” a woman said, exaggerating every part of his name. Now why did she have to go and announce his damn name to the entire bar? Probably a good thing there were only a handful of drunks here today. He sighed, but didn't answer. No need to confirm that's who he was, not right now, not to some lady who went around messing with criminals.

“Ze lady is talking to you, _Herr_ McCree,” a man said, planting a massive hand on his left shoulder.

“That ain't me,” he replied, pouring another shot of whiskey. “I reckon you got me confused for someone else.”

The woman laughed, taking a seat on the barstool next to him and leaning on her elbow, smirking as she stared him down. “I don't often get folk wrong. You ain't good at hiding, McCree, so you can't play dumb now.”

 

McCree smirked, throwing back another shot. The burn was good today. “I ain't hiding, cause I ain't gotta hide. You got the wrong guy, Miss…?”

“Ashe,” she said, extending her other hand out to him. “Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe.”

“I know you,” McCree said. “You're that rich girl what went and started robbing banks, right?”

“The one and only,” she replied, nodding and tipping her wide-brimmed black hat. Unusually, she wore a vest with a distinctly male cut, matched with suit pants and a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to about her elbows. Rose tattoos covered her arms, and her stark hazel eyes, flanked by locks of white hair, told him he had encountered a dangerous woman.

 

“Hmm,” McCree said, hesitantly shaking her gloved hand. “Well, I still reckon you ain't found the right fella.”

Ashe smiled, shaking her head. “Bob, why don't you show McCree here that we don't take too kindly to dishonest folk?”

“Bob”, apparently the oversized man who was casting a shadow over him, whipped McCree around, bringing him face-to-face with him. His stark blue eyes pierced his very soul, and ironically, his “friendly mutton chops” were anything but. Bob grabbed McCree's poncho, ripping him off the barstool and to the floor before he could even comprehend what was going on. His hat went flying, and the shot glass he had in his hand also went down, shattering as it hit the floor.

 

“Don't worry, John, we'll pay for the glass!” Ashe called out, hopping off the barstool to crouch down to McCree. “Now, Bob here can do a lot more than just throw people on the floor. We know who you are, McCree. I _could_ tell the Texas Rangers where you're at, I know they're hot to find you.”

“You wouldn't dare,” he sputtered. “Where's my hat?”

“Or, and I kinda like this option better, you come with me to Spain.”

McCree blinked, trying to wonder where and how in the hell _Spain_ came into all this. “What the hell's in Spain?”

 

“For one, a way to get away from the government for good. Two, the rest of my crew.”

McCree sighed, rubbing the back of his head and wincing. “Call me a skeptic, but I ain't see much worth in going to Spain for just that. Where's my hat?”

“You're missin' the point, McCree. I'm offering you a chance to get away from running. I've got a good crew, good people who look after each other. Lot of opportunity over there, you know.”

“Opportunity to get shot. Not interested.”

 

Ashe smirked, standing tall and looking over at Bob. He returned the look, curiously cocking an eyebrow at her. “Bob,” Ashe said. “Why don't you go out there and find a telephone to call up the feds, please?”

“Of course, _Frau Ashe,”_ Bob said, nodding and turned to the door. “Shall I inform zem zat we have found the dangerous outlaw Jesse McCree?”

“Yes, please do.”

McCree furrowed his brow, slowly picking himself off the floor and searching for his hat. Where the hell could it have gone? Alright, whatever, time'll come to focus on that later. “Okay, hold on, just – _wait_ a damn minute,” McCree said, taking a knee as he looked up at Ashe and Bob. “What the hell do y'all want _me_ for anyway? What makes me so special?”

 

Bob paused, stayed by Ashe's hand as her grin turned devilish, kneeling down to get on his level. “You're special because I've heard what you can do with a gun, McCree. Now, you tell me, what would you rather do? Rot in prison, or join me in Spain, fighting for freedom?”

McCree stared at her outstretched hand, then her sweet smile. At least, he'd call it sweet if it wasn't planted on the face of a woman rumored to have killed over 50 lawmen. Christ, he really had no choice, did he? Either he'd go with her to Spain, or she would turn him over to the feds. “Lose-lose either way, isn't it? Hell, you got me. Guess we're all taking a trip to Spain, huh?”

Taking his hand in hers, Ashe helped McCree off the floor, smiling wider than ever. “You're in good hands, McCree. We look out for out own.” 

 

He and Ashe shook hands, sealing the deal. McCree was less than enthusiastic about it, however – doubly more so when Bob began reaching for his pistol.

“Hold on there,” he said. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Bob's just trying to account for your ammo needs,” Ashe explained. “We got a lot of folk with a lot of different guns, gotta source our ammo from _somewhere."_

McCree scoffed, his hand hovering over his pistol. “Could have just asked. .45 ACP. That good enough, or do you wanna read the serial too?”

 

Bob shook his head, extracting a small notepad from his vest and jotting this down with a short pencil, carefully shutting the little pad and gingerly returning it as he intensely studied McCree's revolver.

“Fan of .45, huh?” Ashe said, smirking. “I ain't ever been much of a Colt girl.”

“I'm sure you'll tell me plenty about it,” McCree replied, having finally found his hat underneath Ashe's former barstool. “So, what's the plan to get us to Spain?”

Ashe turned around, gesturing for Bob and McCree to follow her out of the bar. “Leave the details to me, McCree,” she said. “All you gotta do is show up.”

 

McCree nodded. Guess he didn't need that room for long, then.

 

* * *

 

 

McCree sighed as he smoked a cigarette, standing in a harbor in Savannah. Ashe and her butler were supposed to be here by now. Where the hell were they? He was sticking out like a sore thumb out here, regarded by the passing folk as more of a curiosity. Good thing his trail had gone cold by the time he had gotten to Georgia, otherwise he'd have to stay cooped up in that damn hotel. The air smelled like the sea, but that wasn't unusual considering how close he was to the water. Savannah would've been a nice city if there weren't so many people.

 

On his left, McCree saw Ashe and Bob approaching. _Finally,_ he thought, stomping out his cigarette. Time to get this show on the road. Ashe smiled as she saw him, waving slightly. Bob remained quiet as he walked over, watching the crowd with a scrutinizing eye.

“You ain't got much on ya, McCree,” Ashe noted.

“I'm a light traveler. You know how it is.”

Ashe shrugged, walking past him to head down towards the docks. “Boat's ready for us. Bob went ahead and got all the ammo you'll need over in Spain.”

“I've got some rounds of my own,” McCree said. “How much you reckon we're going to need?”

“Don't you know?” Ashe asked, turning around with a seductive smile on her face. “There's a war going on there, McCree.”

 

McCree scowled, narrowing his eyes at Ashe. “I didn't sign up to join no war.”

“Nobody does, McCree. We ain't going over there to fight for any government, we're fighting for freedom.”

“I dunno if you noticed, but I ain't exactly a 'red white and blue, apple pie and baseball' kind of guy.”

She turned around, cocking an eyebrow at him as Bob continued onto the boat, unimpressed with the conversation thus far. “Are you hard of hearing or something? I said _we ain't fighting for any government._ These folk I've got in good with, we're making damn sure there won't be a government to interfere with anyone.”

“Whatever,” McCree said, rolling his eyes. “S'long as you don't go and try making yourself emperor.”

Ashe smiled, lightly patting McCree on the cheek. “Only thing I'm gonna be empress of is _myself,_ cowboy. Come on, let's go to Spain.”

 

McCree sighed, picking up his bags and following Ashe and Bob onto their transport. He was never much of a boat person, so he couldn't quite describe the thing beyond it being a _boat._ Hell, the thing had a rudder and floated, right? What else mattered beyond that? His room in the boat had a simple cot, and a desk that was bolted to the wall and a chair that seemed like it was two seconds away from sliding away with an uneasy roll. Mere minutes after stepping foot, they began to steam away. McCree tossed his bag underneath the cot, rolling his shoulders back. Maybe he could get some shut-eye in before they got underway.

 

Sliding onto the cot, McCree glanced out the port window, watching Savannah's skyline fade away, rolling with the sea as their boat began to head out of harbor. Too much light coming in. He slipped his hat over his eyes, leaning back and relaxing. At least, as much as he could on a steel cot chained to the wall. How had Ashe even gotten them this ride anyway? Time slipped past him as he dipped in and out of sleep, their paper cup of a boat rolling with every wave, every crest of the ocean. The trip to Spain was promised to take at least a week, if not longer. May as well get some good sleep in. If there was a war going on like Ashe said, he'd need it.


	2. Ashe's Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree, Ashe and Bob arrive in Spain, mere minutes before the Spanish Civil War goes into full swing.

Their boat arrived in Almeria two weeks later, lazily rolling into harbor in September of 1936. McCree, Ashe, and Bob made their way off, carrying with them their bags and, in Bob's case, the crates of ammunition they had stowed with them. Dock workers milled about the area, and soldiers stood watch. A handful of military policemen began going around, checking papers and harassing people for reasons unknown to McCree.

“Leave them be,” Ashe warned him. “They're looking for fascists. Good thing we ain't one a' them.”

At the entrance to the dock, there was a man with brown slacks and an olive drab shirt on, smoking a cigarette. Spotting Ashe, he extinguished his smoke and began heading towards them. On instinct, McCree's hand hovered over his revolver. No telling what dangers awaited them in Spain.

 

“Rick,” Ashe said, extending her hand. Rick took it, shaking it and looking McCree up and down.

“Ashe, good to see ya.” McCree could tell right away this Rick was from Boston, or at least near the area. “Who da hell's this guy?” 

“Y'all will meet him in time. Where's everyone else?”

“Over in Toledo, like you asked us to. Should be about a five-hour drive.”

“Good. If you'd be so kind as to find us a truck, Rick? McCree and Bob can help ya load up the supplies.”

 

Rick nodded, heading off to find the required truck. Meanwhile, Bob began stacking up boxes that ostensibly had their supplies in them, effortlessly tossing them into their piles like it was nothing.

“If you don't mind me asking,” McCree said, sauntering over to Bob, “what's in these boxes?”

“Ammo, food, that kinda thing,” Ashe replied. “All that we need to survive in a war.”

McCree nodded, lighting up a cigar and puffing on it as he waited for the truck to come. “Guess you got some kinda plan for getting out of this _alive?_ Still don’t know what we’re doing here.”

 

Ashe sighed as she pulled out a small notebook, flipping it open and jotting down some notes. “I swear, it’s like you got sand in your ears sometimes. Or do you just not listen to me because I’m a woman?”

“Whoa there, it ain’t like that-”

“That’s what they _all_ say ‘till some so-called ‘gentleman’ makes a crack about how I’m only good for raising children,” Ashe said, glaring at McCree. “I know your type, McCree.”

Apparently, it had only taken Rick a few moments to find a truck. He pulled up in an older model, dinged to hell and scratched all over, with a wooden bed that looked like it was half-rotted out. Ashe whistled at Bob, and he began dutifully loading up crates in the back, tossing them in as if they were nothing.

 

“This the best you could find?” McCree asked, raising an eyebrow. “Thing looks like it’ll fall apart in two miles.”

Rick slammed the door shut, walking around the front. “Sorry I couldn’t bring over the latest Ford with all the bells and whistles, fella.”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine, Rick,” Ashe said. “McCree! Start helping Bob.”

Despite thinking he didn’t really _need_ McCree’s help, he headed over and started moving boxes. Bob regarded his help as more of an annoyance, intentionally bumping into him a few times and yanking crates from his hands. After a few minutes, however, the truck was loaded to Ashe’s satisfaction, and she smiled as she looked upon the results.

 

“Alright, Bob, up front with me. Rick, McCree, y’all take the back.”

Bob nodded silently, moving up to the driver’s seat as Rick climbed onto the back of the truck with McCree. As the doors slammed shut, McCree tossed his cigar off the side, listening to the engine turn over. Sounded like hell, but it still worked. For now, at least. Slowly, Almeria’s old buildings began to roll away, replaced by rolling, white and beige hills dotted by the occasional spot of green. It almost reminded him of New Mexico.

 

“So where da hell did Ashe find you?” Rick asked halfway through the journey.

“Bar in Texas,” he replied, doing his best to clean his pistol even as the truck bounced around.

Rick scoffed, smirking as he popped open a bottle of scotch. “Must be _real_ fuckin’ desperate, then.”

McCree shook his head. He didn’t need to justify himself to this Boston fool, relay his life story to him. All McCree had to do now was just enjoy the ride, and be ready for anything.

 

* * *

 

 

They arrived in Toledo a little over five hours later, about right after two by McCree’s watch. The truck trundled into a camp somebody had set up, with all sorts of tents scattered about. Campfires had been built without regard for whether someone else had built one, with random groups of people cooking food and boiling water, while others milled about with rifles in their hands. Ashe was out of the truck first as it stopped, heading to the back and dragging a long box out, cracking it open with a crowbar.

 

“Bob!” Ashe yelled, pulling out a rifle from the crate. “Go gather everyone up! I got an _announcement_ to make.”

McCree and Rick hopped off the truck, waiting around for the others to head over as Bob began rounding them up. He stole a glance at Ashe, looking over the rifle she held. It wasn’t like anything he recognized – bolt action, but there was a familiar tube magazine that he saw more often on old Winchesters. Strange design. He’d never seen a bolt-action with a tube magazine before.

 

After a few minutes, Bob had gathered enough people up, judging by the fact Ashe smiled, leaning her rifle against her shoulder. “Alright, everyone,” she said, projecting her voice to make sure she was heard. “We got some _new faces_ here, so I wanted to go over what we’re doing here again. Our fight’s for freedom, for people who can’t raise up arms themselves. Y’all have been victims of wage slavery before, here in Spain, we can make that dream of freedom _happen.”_

A rousing cheer of approval came from Rick and the others gathered around them, alongside some clapping.

_“But,”_ Ashe said, her smile replaced by a harsh frown. “That only happens if you follow the rules we’ve set up with the other syndicalists around here. Keep your word, don’t work with nationalists, respect each other’s territory, and _always_ punish betrayal. You break one of those principles? I’m shooting you myself. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am!” came the enthusiastic reply from the crowd.

 

Bob opened a crate from the back of the truck, full of rifles. He shoved one into McCree’s hands, and then Rick’s, going down the line to give every man a rifle if he didn’t already have one. McCree was familiar with the weapon almost immediately – typical bolt-action, wasn’t that hard to screw up. Ammo and pouches to put it in were handed out as well. Bob began unloading the truck with some down-time in hand, assisted by Rick and anyone else who wanted to help, while Ashe headed off alone, gun in hand.

 

McCree followed her, lighting up another cigarette after slinging his new rifle. She paused, tipping her massive black hat up to get a better view of the little camp.

“Welcome to Spain, McCree,” she said.

“You ain’t never explained to me what the actual _plan_ was, Ashe. This doesn’t seem like your kind of fight. Thought you were all about robbing banks.”

She frowned, casting a suspicious eye on him. “Anarchism isn’t just about waving your middle finger at the cops, McCree. It’s about _helping_ people, taking apart an unjust system and burning it to the ground.”

“Rich words coming from a rich girl.”

 

She turned to him, holding up her rifle. “You see this? This is my grandpa’s rifle. He brought this over from Switzerland, and built himself a fortune using it. My grandpa hated Switzerland, thought the place was too pompous, so he comes over to the US. Figured it’d be different, but he saw the same shit he saw in Switzerland, hated he had to abide by it.”

McCree tapped away the ashes of his cigarette, looking over the old wood of her rifle. Definitely _looked_ old. “I ain’t seeing your point.”

“The point is, Daddy wasn’t much a fan of grandpa’s ideas. He took the money he made and made even more. I never wanted that life. Why do you think I robbed all those banks? It’s to get the money to buy up guns and ammo and move all these people over to _here,_ dammit.”

 

Off in the distance, McCree could hear shooting. Sounded like it was coming from inside Toledo itself. Lot of rifle fire, with the occasional explosion highlighting the battle that must have been raging over yonder. On his left, he heard Bob stomping on over, carrying a massive rifle in his hands.

“Zey are asking for help, _Frau Ashe,”_ Bob said. “It appears ze government cannot contain _der Nationalisten.”_

Ashe sighed, looking out at Toledo. “Alright, round the gang up, then get me my ammo. We’re going out to get ourselves some fascists.”

 

* * *

 

 

Thankfully, getting into Toledo itself to join this fight wasn’t as time-consuming at getting from the coast. The sound of a machine gun echoed in the air as they moved through narrow Spanish streets, devoid of people. McCree could see the shells of shops dotting the cobblestone, the remains of what was clearly a once-vibrant town. Now, though, bullet holes marred the stucco in the buildings, alongside old, dried bloodstains on the walls. Scattered rifle fire cracked, telling a tale of a brutal fight.

 

McCree, Ashe, and the ragtag group she had formed met up with local Spanish military units, who had taken to surrounding a castle of some kind. Three of the four citadels had been destroyed, with the southwest tower standing tall and defiantly. Rubble was all over, cascading down from the hill the castle stood upon. Someone directed them to cross the bridge to get closer to the siege, passing by a group of big guns that continually lobbed shells across the river. Each massive boom was accompanied by the hollow clanging of a spent shell hitting the cobblestone, followed up quickly by metal parts moving against each other and rushed Spanish. A handful of tanks sat on the bridge as well, idling as a man sat on the rear of one, his body sticking out from the back of the turret as he scanned the area with a pair of binoculars.

 

“Does _anyone_ here speak Spanish?” Ashe asked as they got closer to the fighting. Somebody – officer, judging by the look of him – had already spotted their group and was heading towards them.

“I can,” McCree said, readjusting the strap on his rifle. “Little rusty, though.”

“It’ll have to be good enough,” Ashe said, already scanning the area.

The officer scowled, approaching them with an air of arrogance about him. “Are you all CNT?” he asked, waving a short ivory stick at them.

“Uh, sure, I guess,” McCree replied. Whatever the hell CNT was, it was probably what they were, right? “What d’you need us to do?”

 

The officer was unimpressed, shaking his head. “We’ll be beginning an attack soon. Is this your crew?”

“Nah, hers,” McCree replied, jerking his head to Ashe. “What’s the plan?”

“Shoot the nationalists?” the officer said, almost incredulously as he cocked an eyebrow. “That’s all _you_ need to know.”

A massive explosion rocked the scene, nearly knocking some of Ashe’s group to the ground. McCree looked up at the castle, watching the fourth tower fall in a massive wave of dust. Behind him, he could hear the sound of the tanks from earlier moving closer, mixing with what sounded like some kind of heavy-duty car engine.

 

“Mind telling us what’s going on, McCree?!” Ashe demanded, taking cover behind a wall.

“Some kind of attack going on soon!”

Hurried Spanish filled his ears as the regular military units and other militias prepared themselves for the assault. The vehicles behind them must have been assembling and getting ready to provide support. Only a few minutes passed, but it felt like hours when someone blew a whistle. Must have been the signal to attack.

 

Squealing wheels, creaking tracks, and the heavy boots of hundreds of people filled the air as the Spanish regulars and Ashe’s merry little band charged up the hill to the citadel. So far, nobody was shooting. Did the Nationalists even care that they were advancing? It didn’t make much sense to McCree. The Mauser he had been given was heavy, awkward to carry. He would have preferred a Winchester if he had to carry a rifle, but hell, he didn’t think the war was this serious. Didn’t ever think he’d be right in the middle of it like this.

 

The crack of rifle fire brought him out of his ruminations, bullets flying his way and ready to kill. Well, time to respond. McCree flipped the safety off, scanning the citadel’s windows for a shooter. _Damn,_ hard to tell with all the smoke. Somebody opened up with a machine gun. Bob charged forward, sliding the back of his rifle’s stock into some kind of slot on his equipment belt, opening fire and he steadily walked forward. Bob must have gotten one of those automatic rifles he had heard about. _Wasn’t that kind of thing government-issue?_

 

They approached a broken half-wall, providing temporary cover on their approach to the citadel. McCree crouched down low, peeking out to scan for targets again. _There we go._ Had a fella in one of the windows working his bolt. McCree fired a shot, not quite prepared for the recoil of the Mauser. Lot stronger than a .44-40 round, that was for sure. He worked the bolt back, chambering a new round as Ashe started firing on his left.

 

“Keep pushing forward!” an officer shouted, waving a sword around dramatically. What _year_ was this?

“Come on,” Ashe yelled, vaulting over the wall. “We’re proving our worth today!”

Bob shoved a new magazine into his rifle, racking the bolt and covering Ashe as she charged forward. McCree followed close behind, unaware of anyone else was really following them. Did it matter? Probably not. A lot of the Spaniards seemed pretty enthusiastic about this whole idea. Machine gun fire from armored cars and the occasional shell from a tank provided staccato beats to the symphony of destruction all around them.

 

As McCree got closer to the citadel’s walls, the sound of machine guns and cannon fire filled his ears until he could barely hear anything else. Shells from either the tanks or the artillery punched holes in the old brick, sending pieces of the facade down in a shower above his head. Rifle fire was all around, and somebody had gotten a bit too enthusiastic with grenades, judging by the muffled explosions coming from inside.

 

“Get inside!” somebody yelled, charging through an open hole. Without needing further encouragement, Ashe and Bob followed, joined by other members of the gang. McCree checked his rifle, topping it off with some loose rounds as he climbed over the rubble and stone. The interior made every gunshot a thousand times louder, as if the rifle it came from was right next to his ears. Angry, confused Spanish bounced off the walls, muddling where enemies were and weren’t.

 

Best McCree could tell, they couldn’t really keep going forward. Each shell that slammed into the old building rocked it, sending trails of dust down from the ceiling.

“Ashe!” Rick yelled. “We can’t fucking stay here! We’re gonna get buried!”

Ashe shook her head, shoving rounds into her rifle’s magazine tube. “McCree! Any of these Spaniards yelling about falling back?”

“I ain’t hearing shit!” McCree replied, working the bolt of his rifle. He wasn’t a tactical prodigy, but even he could tell this entire fight was a losing proposition. Had a handful of friendlies in here, but there wasn’t enough room to put their numbers to use. Somebody important made the call to fall back, an order McCree relayed to the rest of the crew. Reluctantly, Ashe, Bob and Rick followed, firing potshots as they retreated.

 

The day slowly turned into night as the big guns on the opposite shore continued to pound away at the castle, unrelenting in their assault. McCree overheard someone saying a Republican plane had spotted an incoming column of Nationalist troops, probably aiming to relieve the siege. The militias and Republican army settled in for the night, watching the shells streak across the sky.


	3. Out of the Frying Pan...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siege of the Alcázar continues.

Four days.

 

They had been besieging the Alcázar for four days. According to the regulars, this had been the situation since mid-July. A storm had descended upon the front, drenching them entirely and soaking them to the bones. Ashe made it clear she was _not_ thrilled with the situation, continually asking McCree for updates from the officers on what they were doing. Each hour that the siege passed with no change, Ashe’s anger grew.

 

Rain bounced off Ashe’s hat as she approached McCree again, a frown etched into her face. “McCree, where’s that fancy officer? I wanna _talk_ to him.”

Rolling his eyes, McCree started heading over to the local Spanish military officer, a Captain Terrazas. His mustache belonged more on a cartoon villain more than a military officer, but hell, McCree wasn’t one to judge. “Hey, Captain,” he said, jerking a finger to Ashe. “She wants to talk to ya.”

“What about?” Captain Terrazas asked, lighting a cigarette.

“He wants to know what about, Ashe.”

 

Ashe narrowed her eyes, watching the captain smoke. “Tell him we’re tired of sitting around. We better be making some progress, and _soon.”_

McCree sighed, relaying the demands over to the officer. He cocked an eyebrow, but with his stoic manner, McCree couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. “How about you tell your _friend_ here she ought to learn her place. Just because she’s CNT doesn’t mean she can dictate the matters of the Republic.”

McCree still didn’t understand what the deal was with this whole anarcho-syndicalist bit, but politics was never his area anyway. Never had the chance to do anything with it – all he ever did was ask where to point the gun and shoot. Ashe _definitely_ wasn’t going to like hearing this. As he translated for the officer, he watched Ashe’s face twist in confusion and anger.

 

“Ask this pompous shitstain if he’s doing this because I’m a woman.”

“Huh?”

“Those _exact words,”_ Ashe growled. “Come on, McCree. Tell him he’s a pompous shitstain.”

 _Goddammit._ “She wants to know if – and I’m quoting _her_ here so don’t get pissed off at _me –_ you’re doing this because she’s a woman. And she called you a pompous shitstain too.”

Captain Terrazas’s face didn’t betray any emotion on his part, only casually glancing at Ashe for a moment before turning back to McCree. “If I disrespected women, _anarchist,_ then I wouldn’t even allow her to _be here._ Tell your girlfriend I’m tired of her questions.”

 

“She ain’t my-” McCree began, before pausing. Whatever – this guy wasn’t worth it. Sighing, he turned to Ashe, once again relaying the news to her. In response, she rolled her eyes and shook her head, retreating to the little corner of hell that she and the crew had made for themselves. By now, the sound of artillery firing wasn’t an uncommon noise, the kind of thing you just learned to ignore after a while. It was kind of like the sound of a fan, or cicadas in the night.

 

Somebody blew a whistle. Looked like Ashe was going to get the progress she wanted. The rain was pouring down even harsher now, a veritable storm that he wasn’t sure he had ever seen before. Judging by the orders coming down from the sergeants, they would be attempting to seize the outer buildings of the citadel. McCree wondered if the Nationalists would fight as hard as they had on the 18th. If they did, then it’d be one hell of a fight.

 

Confused, disorganized shouting came from the fellow Republicans, pausing behind each doorway and ruined stone wall. But, at each stop, each tactical pause, there was no response. The sergeants and officers moved cautiously, wary of a Nationalist trap around every corner. What if they were luring them into a false sense of security, draw them into an ambush? McCree couldn’t exactly blame them.

 

“Hey!” Rick shouted as he headed into yet another empty room. “There’s nobody fucking _here!_ Someone tell these Spanish idiots that?!”

“They’re being cautious,” McCree said. Though, he had to admit – these outer buildings looked empty. Lot of places to hide, but damn, the Nationalists probably would have attacked by now if they were planning on something.

Ashe scowled as she stood tall, shaking the water out of her hat. She clearly was not impressed. “Rick’s right. There ain’t anyone here. I thought we were killing fascists today.”

A sergeant that McCree didn’t know the name of gave the order to settle in. Looked like at least _somebody_ would be occupying the buildings today. Anything to get out of the rain for at least a while. Slowly, the battle energy faded as they began to shift from the offensive right back to where they had been two hours ago.

 

Sitting around, watching the other side of the castle, not doing anything.

 

* * *

 

 

Five days later, the situation had not changed. The day before, reports came in of Nationalist troops in a village only four miles away, causing general unease within the camp. McCree had watched the previous morning as another attack, this one led by one of their tanks, petered out after just 45 minutes, leading to another retreat and more blood shed for no gain. Judging by the concerned voices of the officers, there was only one attack left in them before the situation grew desperate.

 

And thus, once more upon the walls of the citadel they thrust themselves, charging up the hill into withering rifle fire. On his left, he could see Ashe’s massive rifle casings fly from her rifle, the barrel smoking each time she fired a round. Bob’s BAR continually spewed out fire, forcing the Nationalists to keep their heads down. Despite this, the whizzing of bullets and crack of rifle fire still filled McCree’s ears, only punctuated by the sound of his pistol when he had to take a quick shot but had no rifle ammo loaded. Ashe’s orders, mostly for others to start firing at people, got lost in the swarm of Spanish from both behind McCree and in front of him.

 

Their advance brought them to just before the citadel itself, stalled by yet another strong show from the Nationalist defenders. For now, it looked like both sides were just content to hang around and shoot at each other. McCree tried to find targets, but the windows offered nothing other than the occasional flash.

 

“Fuck!” Ashe yelled. McCree glanced over to see her shoving new rounds into her rifle’s magazine, ducking behind some rubble. Before he could look up to start firing back, McCree heard rifle rounds zipping past him – but this time, it was coming from his left side. He looked around, spotting incoming troops. Not friendly.

“Shit!” Rick shouted, pointing to the advancing Nationalists. “We got trouble, Ashe!”

McCree looked around, watching the Republicans and allied militias scattering. Might be time for them to head out, too.

 

“Bob!” Ashe screamed, firing back as she started heading for the bridge. “Do something!”

Barely changing his expression, Bob shoved a hapless militiaman out of the way, leveling his BAR at the incoming Nationalists and opening fire. Stoically, he kept their rapidly approaching enemy from advancing, allowing Ashe and the crew to start falling back across the river. If the officers were giving out orders, nobody was much listening to them. The artillerymen had abandoned their guns, letting them fall silent. What had happened to their tanks?

 

It was all McCree could do to keep his hat on as he tried to keep pace with Ashe, sprinting across the bridge with her and the rest of the gang right behind him. He wasn’t sure if Bob was following – was he still providing covering fire? He wasn’t sure, didn’t hear the BAR going off. Bullets cracked by him, chasing him all the way across the bridge.

“Rick! Where’s the fucking truck?!” Ashe yelled, pausing behind a broken wall to fire back at the Nationalists.

“Don’t fuckin’ know!” Rick replied. “One a’ them fancy officers took it!”

“Why the _fuck_ did they take our goddamn truck?!”

“Fuck if I know! I don’t speak Spanish, ask McCree!”

 

McCree worked the bolt of his rifle, trying not to get his head blown off by the incoming rounds. “Don’t ask me, I don’t know either!”

“Goddammit,” Ashe growled. “Rick! Go find us some transport, and quick, dammit!”

Rick stepped off, disappearing from the battle to find them a truck or something. They had to get out of Toledo, but where were they going to go? Wasn’t like they could head back to their camp, probably didn’t even _exist_ by now. McCree lost track of time, trying to do his best to hold off the incoming Nationalists that were swarming across the river.

 

In between waves of attacks and shoving new rounds in, Rick showed up with a car that somehow looked like it had already been through hell. He gestured for them to get in, but the lack of actual seating meant that only Ashe, McCree and Bob could reasonably fit in. The others were on their own for getting out of the city, but Ashe promised to find a way to get them back.

 

“Where the hell we going?” Rick asked as he put the pedal to the metal, tires squealing as he made his way out of Toledo.

“Madrid,” Ashe replied. “Heard there were people grouping up there.”

The old car shuddered and rattled with every bump, every sharp turn, taking them out of Toledo. The sounds of gunfire slowly began to fade away, replaced by the howling winds of war. McCree leaned his head back against the seat as he closed his eyes, trying to rest at least a little while the car jostled him all over the place.

 

He must have tried sleeping for all of five minutes before giving up. Rick had pulled the car over at some lonely side road, muttering something as he got out. Ashe was also on her way out, slamming the door closed as she clutched her rifle. On his left, Bob’s various belts, straps and bandoleers cut into McCree’s side. Ashe and Rick were yelling at each other about something, but in the haze of coming off the high of combat, he couldn’t make out the words.

 

“Bob!” Ashe screamed, pounding the roof of the car. “Get in the driver’s seat!”

Bob simply nodded, silently changing seats to take up his new position. McCree looked around. They had stopped near some kind of house or something. What the hell was going on here? Rick disappeared into the house, rifle slung on his back. A few minutes later, he emerged, a bottle of Spanish whiskey in his hands.

 

Ashe got back in the car, taking Bob’s former position in the backseat alongside McCree. Rick, already partaking in the whiskey, took a hearty swig from the dark-colored bottle as he got inside the car. With all parties back in the car, Bob started the engine and began driving for Madrid. Occasionally, the droning engine of an airplane provided something else to listen to for a while, but only for a moment.

 

About ten minutes into their trip, Rick had drank half the bottle and was slurring his words. “Hey, I got an idea,” he muttered. “Ashe! I ain’t know much about ya!”

“Don’t you think maybe there’s a _reason_ behind that, Rick?”

“Ah, don’t be like that, Ashe,” Rick said. “Come on, where’d ya grow up?”

“Fuck off.”

“McCree, you wanna know, right? Ain’t you curious?”

McCree shook his head, even though he knew Rick wouldn’t see it. “Nah, not really.”

 

“Well, damn, alright, uh, Ashe, why’d you start robbing banks?”

Ashe frowned, narrowing her eyes at Rick. “Why do you not listen to folk when they tell you to mind your own goddamn business?”

He shook his head, nearly spilling some of his whiskey all over the car’s floor. Might have made it look better, truth be told. “Jesus, Ashe, just trying to make some goddamn conversation!”

“Do me a favor and make conversation with Bob,” Ashe said, taking off her hat and running a hand through her snow-white hair. Rick had clearly – and unintentionally – stepped on a veritable landmine of a topic. Curious as he was as to the reasons behind the anger and hair-trigger reaction, McCree wasn’t much in the habit of pissing off women with guns. Best to leave it and try to enjoy the ride.

 

* * *

 

They arrived in Madrid at night, having waited for the rest of the gang to make their way around. It took the better part of the day, and with a great deal of confusion on almost everyone’s part, but the two separated elements of Ashe’s gang, for better or for worse, had met up and moved as one. Despite mediocre transport and aircraft that alternated between looking friendly and hostile, they slowly headed into the city, looked upon by the staunch Republican defenders with a mixture of curiosity and indifference.

 

Tired, hungry and low on ammo, they took up the night’s residence in a hotel alongside other international volunteers. More work was on the way, an officer told them. Tomorrow, they’d be right back in combat with the Nationalists, after being resupplied and fed. Hopefully – despite relaying the news to the gang, all of whom cheered, McCree wasn’t sold on the idea that they’d manage to get food in their bellies before tomorrow’s fight.

 

Rooms were sparse, and it wasn’t unusual for several men to have to share a suite that was designed to room two people. Perhaps more out of fear of Bob than anything else, Ashe and Bob got their own room, while McCree shared a room with Rick, somebody named Lyman, and Johnny. Or, at least, that was the plan. A few minutes after getting settled and putting their guns against the wall, a knock came at the door. Lyman opened it to reveal Bob, his arms folded behind his back.

 

 _“Guten abend,”_ he said. _“Frau Ashe_ wishes to see you, _Herr_ McCree.”

“Huh?” McCree asked, looking up from cleaning his revolver. “Why?”

“Come with me, if you would,” Bob said, staring straight at him.

Well, looks like he didn’t have much choice. McCree put his revolver back together, holstering it as he followed the massive bodyguard to Ashe’s room. Looked like your usual fare for a hotel room – cheap wallpaper, uncomfortable beds, a nightstand that was entirely too small. Like McCree, she had leaned her rifle up against the wall, a collection of bullets on her bed. Ashe was busy unlacing her boots as he walked in, her hat hanging up on the coat rack.

 

“Hey, McCree,” she said, glancing up only briefly at him.

“Mind if I smoke?” McCree asked, pulling out a cigar. She nodded to let him go ahead and light up, which he did without an issue.

Having freed her feet from the boots, Ashe sighed in relief, probably thankful to just have the things off after a solid two weeks of wearing them without respite. Looking up, she frowned, gesturing for him to take a seat. “Jesus, McCree, sit down, willya? Making me feel like a mom lecturing her kid or something.”

Sighing as he blew out a puff of smoke, McCree opted to take the chair as Bob stood by, watching with a careful eye. “Come on, Ashe, I wanna sleep. Why’d you call me in here?”

 

“Rick stole that whiskey from those folk, I hope you know.”

He scratched his forehead, listening to the old wooden chair creak as he adjusted himself in it. “So?”

 _“So,_ that ain’t what we’re _about_ here, McCree. Those were honest people. I’m making damn sure you understand that we ain’t taking from people who can’t help themselves.”

“Ashe, I ain’t followin’ your point here.”

 

She sighed, shaking her head and rolling her eyes, unbuttoning her vest. _Wait._

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, “what’s going on here?”

Ashe looked up, confused for a moment, until she smirked and laughed, fully aware of what she was doing. “Calm down cowboy, that ain’t what’s happening. Rick told me he’d be on board with my rules. Well, he ain’t, so if he dies fighting Nationalists tomorrow? Ain’t no skin off my back. I’m just making sure you understand that before we get into the thick of it.”

“The hell’s _that_ mean?”

 _“He broke his word,”_ Ashe growled. “You know my rules, McCree. _Everyone_ does.” She blinked slowly, letting out a long, deep breath. “Alright, give a woman a little privacy, will you? Bob, if you’d please.”

 

McCree shook his head as he was escorted back to his room, retiring for the night with the rest of the gang. His dreams were haunted by running from Toledo, and a misty version of Ashe, a mischievous smile on her face as she raised a gun to Rick’s head. It didn’t make any sense to him.


	4. ...Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Madrid continues.

Two weeks later, Ashe’s gang had been assigned to help hold a bridge against Nationalist forces. The interim was boring, even by McCree’s standards – gather ammo, fill sandbags, be on watch for Nationalist incursions. All he could really do was serve as a translator, relaying orders and requests to and from his group and the Republican sergeants and officers. Riflemen milled about the city of Madrid every day, replacing the previous occupants almost entirely.

 

Of course, each day that passed by, every hour that ticked away, meant he had little to do. More often than not, he talked to the few who bothered to say anything back. Out of everyone, Ashe seemed to like talking to him the most. Maybe it was because he had never fawned over her like some of the other fellas, but McCree reckoned it was more because he never took any shit from her. She’d tried to blow smoke up his ass a few times, try and blame him for something, but each time he reminded her that he had done everything she had asked of him and more.

 

It was a strange relationship, even by his standards. Usually, women either fawned over him for his mysterious, deadly “devil may care” nature, or were too shy to even look at him. Ashe…Ashe was different. Even when they had first met all those months ago in that Lubbock saloon, she regarded him more like an equal. Hell, maybe she was surprised by him. He knew just from reputation alone that she didn’t often hear “no” from folk, and here he was, telling her “no” damn near every day.

 

Truth be told, he didn’t much mind it. Privately, he told himself it was alright because she was cute. Maybe it was the gun. No, yeah, it was definitely the gun. Her heirloom rifle, the hat that almost perpetually hid her eyes, and the vest and tie combo just mixed together almost perfectly. It’d be a lot better if the name Ashe wasn’t attached to it. To McCree, knowing she was the one and only Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe just soured anything he might have wanted to feel.

 

Not that McCree was ever one to judge, but it felt hypocritical, claiming to fight for the “workers and people” when you came from so much privilege, the Great Depression barely made a dent in the old family fortune. He never much could make sense of this syndicalist stuff she kept talking about, and Bob always switched between German and English every time he tried to explain it. But God damn it, he just couldn’t deny that her dark hazel eyes seemed to sparkle in the moonlight. Some days, he even dared to daydream about what she’d look like in one of those fancy dresses she no doubt wore when she was still living at home.

 

Just his luck that the skies had darkened once more, threatening rain on the horizon. Maybe a straight-up storm. Hard to tell. Either way, the sounds of approaching tanks and infantry was impossible to miss. Looked like somebody was gearing up to start an attack soon, and it wasn’t going to be the Republicans this time.

 

“The Nationalists come for Madrid!” somebody shouted, standing tall among the defensive works on the Bridge of the French. “They shall not pass!”

McCree checked his rifle – fully loaded, as always. Bob shoved his BAR’s stock into his special belt, while Ashe stood by with what seemed like an improbably amount of grenades. The tension was thick enough McCree could practically cut it with a knife. A wave of dust kicked up by roaming vehicles clouded vision beyond the bridge. Tracks squeaked and squealed, advancing ever closer towards them as a long Spanish rallying cry echoed from across the river.

 

Almost immediately, enemy machine gun fire started to rake their positions, forcing McCree to keep his head down. Bob’s rifle began to bark as more and more machine guns joined in the chaos. He popped his head back up for a split second, trying to find a target, but couldn’t find any. Ashe’s rifle began to ring out on his left, with the occasional high-explosive shell coming through loud and clear.

 

Not even a minute after the attack started, roaring engines joined in the myriad of sounds.

“Yo,” Rick shouted over the gunfire, “are those ours?”

“Do I look like some kinda pilot to you?” McCree asked.

The sound of bombs exploding behind them eliminated the possibility that these planes were friendly. Must have been Nationalist, but where was _their_ air force? Didn’t they have control of the skies just a few weeks ago? The ground shook with each enemy bomb run, the noise of stucco falling onto the old cobblestone roads. McCree looked up, watching the tanks advance ever closer. How were they supposed to even take these things out?

 

“Tank! Fucking tank!” Rick shouted, as if it really necessitated repeating, pointing at the advancing vehicles. Ashe’s grenades might have a solution? Looked like she already had the idea going in her head. Ashe had laid her rifle down by her side, pulling the pin on grenades and throwing them as fast as her arm allowed her to. McCree did his part to keep the accompanying infantry suppressed, watching small explosions appear in front of him. One got close to a tank painted in a dull green-gray, the small vehicle rocking back and forth as the left-side track sloughed itself off. Unaware of the lost track the tank continued forward, swinging around to the left and crashing through the bridge’s railing, driving right over the edge.

 

“Good arm, Ashe,” Johnny yelled, reloading his Mauser. “Reckon you can do that with the rest of them?!”

The whistling of falling bombs, echoing machine guns from the tanks, and the familiar pop of rifle fire began to fade away as McCree focused on the infantry in front of him. Black men with long coats and strange helmets. Must have been colonial troops. The sergeants had said something about these guys before, that they were supposed to be crack troops or something? He didn’t remember. Bullet’s a bullet either way – it’ll kill you dead no matter where you came from.

 

Almost as if to emphasize that point, Lyman took a shot to the chest. Falling to the ground like a sack of bricks, his coughing mixed with the sound of him choking on his own blood, arrested breaths trying to suck at least a little air in.

“Shit!” Rick said, knelling down next to Lyman. “McCree! Where’s one of those Spanish medics?!”

“Fuck that!” Ashe yelled, grabbing her rifle and gesturing for them to follow her. “The Spanish are falling back! Best if we join them!”

“I’m not leaving my fuckin’ brother here!”

 

Ashe shook her head, rolling her eyes as she paused only to turn around for a split second. “I don’t give a fuck! He’s _dead_ , Rick, you wanna stay here and die with him, be my guest!”

McCree looked around – Ashe was right, the Spanish were starting to pull out. The Nationalists were starting to swarm the bridge, gray-painted tanks trundling across it with men riding on the back, wildly firing their rifles at their lines. Somebody was shouting to regroup deeper in the city, an order McCree dutifully followed and relayed to the rest of the group.

 

Bullets chased them as they followed local Madrid militiamen through narrow streets, ducking and weaving in between alleyways and forgotten side roads. Ruined, half-destroyed buildings blocked their paths at points, but the locals were never worried. Their new stronghold became the same hotel they had occupied just a week beforehand. A handful of militiamen had gotten here already, had begun setting up defenses. Mostly, it was just shoving bookcases in front of doors that they deemed not useful, or overturning tables to act as makeshift cover, but it was better than standing around in the open.

 

“You!” an officer shouted, pointing at McCree and Johnny. “There’s sandbags outside! Get them in here, now!”

“On it!” McCree replied, tossing aside the Mauser. Couldn’t let it get in the way of moving these things. Bob joined in their exercise in moving the sandbags, piling them up on windowsills to provide another level of protection for them as they waited for the incoming Nationalists. This hotel was quickly turning into a fortress, guarded by hundreds of local soldiers and Ashe’s gang. Judging by the fading sounds of combat elsewhere in the city, the Nationalist attack was starting to peter out. Night fell on Madrid, the silent evening periodically broken by an isolated rifle shot.

 

McCree rested his head against their makeshift defenses, glancing over to see Ashe watching the windows like a hawk. Or, maybe, she was watching Rick. He had broken off from hanging near Ashe and the gang after arriving at the hotel, and refused to say a word since. Did his sticky fingers extend to anything else? Why was he even here? Frowning, Ashe said something in quiet German to Bob, who silently nodded and got up from the floor. He didn’t see where Bob went after that, but it looked like he was heading to the little corner Rick had claimed.

 

“What’s that about?” McCree asked.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Ashe replied, not taking her eyes off the front of the hotel. He hadn’t known Ashe for long, but he knew that when she said something, she damn well meant it. Whatever. McCree shrugged, drifting off to sleep even as the gunshots echoed across Madrid.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day was relatively quiet, all things considered. McCree could hear the sounds of combat, but it was distant, deeper elsewhere in Madrid. Sleep had been fleeting over the night. Constant bombardments, from both the air and artillery, prevented him from getting more than half an hour of sleep at a time. Ashe and Bob didn’t seem to sleep at all, watching every entrance, every member of their group with a careful, scrutinizing eye. Morning passed with a tense breakfast over coffee and cigarettes, with little available for actual food. The rain had picked up again, and a hole in the roof of the hotel meant his boots, which he had taken off for comfort, were now rain-soaked and impossible to dry.

 

The afternoon was even worse, bringing an air of distrust and anger in their hotel. Someone was missing something of importance to them – an icon, a book, whatever it was, McCree didn’t catch the word. The Spanish regular had accused a member of the gang of the crime, a charge that he vehemently denied. Ashe had nearly sent Bob to blows over the matter with the soldier, and it probably would have come to that had one of the Spanish sergeants not just evicted the man to another part of the hotel.

 

In the meanwhile, though, the two sides kept to their corners. Bob sat with his back to the wall, glancing up at the Spanish as he hand-loaded ammo for Ashe’s rifle. He had even enlisted McCree’s help temporarily, having him measure out black powder for him as he crafted new bullets for the cartridges. McCree could safely say he didn’t think black powder cartridges were still a thing – come to think of it, he thought black powder was kind of a thing of the past.

 

Eventually, Bob grew tired of McCree’s “assistance” and shooed him away, insisting he would be more help anywhere _but_ next to him. With nobody else much in the mood to talk, he ended up hanging around Ashe again, smoking the day away.

“You know,” she said, completely unprompted. “I wasn’t always like this.”

“What, a bank-robbing anarchist militia leader? Say it ain’t so.”

“Very funny. I’m serious, McCree.”

 

Ashe looked around, probably making sure nobody was nearby. Either way, she kept her voice low, as if she were ashamed of herself. “I used to not think too much about my place in the world. I woke up, had breakfast, did whatever the hell rich girl shit Daddy told me to do.”

Exhaling a long drag of smoke, McCree cocked an eyebrow at her, wondering where she was going with this. She didn’t even look at him, her eyebrows drooping almost as if she were tired. Wait, no, that wasn’t fatigue. That was remorse, the kind of sadness someone only had when they had spent years with a burden on their backs.

“Well, when the Depression hit, we weren’t that bad off. I didn’t get what all the fuss was about until we were strolling the streets of Dallas one day. That day, I saw a lot of folks that looked like they hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even had new clothes in years. I asked Daddy why those people were like that, and he just says ‘Elizabeth, that’s just the way things are in this world.’”

 

He scoffed, shaking his head. Like he hadn’t lived hand to mouth before. As if he hadn’t seen friends die because the only food that was around was barely fit for pigs. There he had been, shivering and alone on cold nights on the concrete, wondering if that sleep would be his last. “Sounds like he knew how the world worked,” he commented.

Ashe frowned, briefly glancing over at him. “Well, that didn’t sit right with me. I didn’t think that sounded right. Now, Daddy had this huge library, like that one in Beauty and the Beast, you know?”

“Not really,” he replied. “That some kinda book?”

“That house had just…one room, full of books. I’m talking wall to wall with bookshelves, about all kinds of things. Daddy considered himself a learned man, liked to read a lot.” She smiled, but only for a split second. “Most importantly, he had books on politics, economics, lot of stuff he’d read through then roll his eyes at. Called a bunch of it a child’s fantasy, didn’t even think it was worth the paper it was printed on.”

 

“Let me guess,” McCree said, tapping away ashes off his cigar. “You thought different.”

She smirked, letting out a huff of air. “We’ve got ourselves a winner, folks. I started reading up on this syndicalist thing. Started making sense after a while. Thought I’d make myself like Robin Hood, you know? Rob the rich, give to the poor, that kind of thing. When I heard about this civil war, it clicked into place just like that.”

“What, fight over in a country you ain’t belong to?”

Ashe shook her head slowly. “Like I told you the other day. I’m aiming to help people who can’t help themselves. Ain’t nobody looking out for the little guy, McCree. I’m getting rid of the middleman.”

 

“Who says the little guy wants your help anyway?” McCree challenged.

Rolling her eyes, Ashe was about to respond when a cascade of bullets zipped into the hotel, breaking the few windows that remained. Panicked Spanish mixed with Ashe screaming out orders, rifle fire and grenades exploding as McCree scrambled to his feet. Even though the sun was dropping below the horizon, the Nationalists had seen fit to launch an assault on their position. If they kept this up, it was going to be a long night.


	5. Devil's Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A massive Nationalist assault continues through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because I will be out of town during normal update days. Schedule will return to normal next week.

The night dragged on, with no respite as the hotel defenders attempted to chase shadows, brief flashes of light from their foe’s rifles that popped in the middle of the dark. Visibility inside the hotel was near-zero, ruined each time someone fired a rifle and resetting any progress one might have made in getting their eyes adjusted to the night. McCree was never sure if he had actually hit anyone, and after nearly four hours of trading fire with ghosts, started to believe that the screams he heard was some sort of elaborate prank.

 

Must have been close to 2 AM before there was even a slight reprieve from the battle, and even then it was only for a moment. A group of Nationalists had broken into the hotel, prompting a brutal, no-holds-barred melee with the intruding enemy. Bob had engaged with them almost immediately, abandoning his rifle to instead just beat the hell out of the Nationalists. Successfully – and literally – beaten back, the Nationalists had retired for a moment. But, ten minutes later they came back in force, this time bringing their tanks to bear against the hotel. Machine gun bullets filled the air as the enemy tanks raked the building back and forth like a hellish sewing machine.

 

At about 3 – or 4, what did it even matter – the fire began to fade away, replaced by the intermittent rifle shot that only rang out to remind them that the Nationalists were still there, or when someone dared to breathe a little too loudly. McCree found himself unable to keep focus, each distant tracer further in the city just a mere haze. Even the flashes of gunshots and whispered order between friends just blurred together, and as he tried to quietly reload his rifle in the moments of undeclared peace, he found the process difficult. It was like he had never handled a rifle or bullets before, and each clatter of loose ammo against the floor prompted another shot from their hidden foe.

 

Shit, it was like the night itself was attacking them at this point. Bob tried to maneuver to set up a good firing position in case they stormed in again, but each step he took meant another shot cracked out from the pitch black. Occasionally, the Nationalists felt like wasting ammo and started up another round of withering rifle fire, but never for more than a short while. Five or ten minutes, at most. Ashe had ordered down the line, no returning fire. They didn’t have the ammo to reply, and it wasn’t looking like they’d be resupplied anytime soon. Not if the rest of Madrid was in this desperate a position.

 

The second longest lull lasted until just before sunrise, when the sun began to creep across the horizon and painted the area in a blue hue. Nationalists might start shooting again, now that they had light, but it also allowed McCree to be able to truly _see_ everyone around him again. Despite being up for the better half of two days, Ashe didn’t look any worse for wear. Her hat had swatches of dirt on it, marring the otherwise pristine black fabric, and it seemed like her face was set in a permanent scowl, filled with abject hatred for their foe. Her white shirt was stained with blood – not her own, one of the Spaniards.

 

Maybe it was the lack of sleep talking, but _damn_ she looked good.

 

When the sun began to crack the barrier of the horizon, filling the world with color once more, it seemed to act like a signal to the Nationalists. Practically within seconds, the tension in the air exploded as the Nationalist attack began once more.

“Come on!” Ashe screamed, wisps of smoke pouring out of her rifle as she ejected a spent cartridge. “Fire back, you yellow-bellied cowards!”

McCree shouldered his rifle, which was suddenly heavy in his hands. It swayed back and forth as he tried to reckon a shot, before opting to just prop it up against the table he was hiding behind and start firing using it for support.

 

“Hey! McCree!” Johnny shouted, drawing McCree’s attention to him.

“What?!”

“They’re coming for you, buddy!” he yelled, gesturing to the left.

He swung his head to the broken wall of the hotel, watching a group of Nationalists flooding in. _Shit._ Trying to get a good grip on his rifle, McCree attempted to work the bolt but his hands were clumsy, like he was underwater. An electric jolt of pain cleared any fogginess that might have been in him, and he found himself on the floor. McCree tried to get up, using his left arm to brace himself, but the pain came back even worse. He looked at his arm, which was now covered with blood with more coming out _fast._

 

“Shit,” Ashe muttered. “McCree! You alright?” She abandoned her rifle, dropping it to the floor as she tried to judge his wounds.

“I’m fine,” he lied, waving her off with his free hand. “Let me shoot them!”

“Bob!” Ashe screamed, switching to German to order him to do something. Her bloodstained hands grabbed her rifle again, returning fire at the intruding enemy. Bob knelt over McCree, coldly examining his arm despite the raging firefight around them. After a while, Bob began wrapping his arm up in a bandage, but not before disinfecting it with a healthy swig of alcohol that burned like no tomorrow.

 

_“Wie geht es ihm?”_ Ashe asked, pausing from the fight to check up on him.

_“Er ist glücklich. Es hätte viel schlimmer kommen können.”_

“Y’all got terrible bedside manner,” McCree muttered, wincing as the bandage was wound tighter and tighter around him. Ashe shook her head, apparently having found another target to start shooting at. Bob declared his job done, handing McCree his rifle back. _Christ,_ it was even harder to hold than before. This wasn’t going to work. He unholstered his revolver, preferring to use it over trying to wield a long rifle with a busted wing.

 

McCree fought through the pain each time he reloaded his revolver, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it’d have been if he had kept trying to use the Spanish Mauser. At least this way, he had more room to maneuver compared to everyone else using rifles. Might come in handy if the Nationalists came back in force. At about 7 AM, they broke off their attack, retreating back into Madrid. The hotel became still as they waited to see if this was really a full-fledged retreat, or just a ruse to lull them into a false sense of security. The tension was so thick in the air, McCree could hear his own heartbeat, fully convinced that – if they were out there, at least – the Nationalists could hear the sweat rolling off their bodies.

 

The quiet prevailed, in their part of Madrid at least. Twenty minutes after the enemy had broken off, the officer declared the battle won. Time to collect the dead and wounded, and gather up any ammo left behind. Their group had been relatively lucky – aside from Lyman’s death earlier in the day, their only casualty after the night-long battle had been some kid McCree didn’t know the name of. Their Spanish hosts were less fortunate. McCree counted a lot of bodies on the floor wearing Spanish uniforms. Well, no better time than now to get some shut-eye.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, now with restocked ammunition and a good night’s sleep, their little anarchist group had joined up with an International Brigade. Their goal, the Hungarian in charge said, was to attack and seize a Nationalist position on the _Cerro de los Ángeles_ hill. Through this, they’d be able to prevent the Nationalists from cutting the road to Madrid off. It was as hodgepodge a group as hodgepodge could get. Whereas the day before the language of the land was Spanish, here there were Germans that Ashe and Bob could talk to, Italians that Rick looked down on, and Frenchmen, Belgians and Scandinavians that nobody understood.

 

Unfortunately, his arm had not recovered, and this meant he was still restricted to just his pistol. McCree didn’t mind much – he thought he was a better shot with his revolver than the rifle anyway. The day was sunny, unusual for November, with a cool breeze passing over the land. The hill looked peaceful, if you didn’t mind the black ground that had been churned up by artillery shells and bombs. If they believed the Germans, they’d have all the artillery and air support they needed to take this hill from the Nationalists.

 

The attack did not get off to a good start. Different groups moved out at different times, meaning the companies divided by nationality had no idea what the other was doing and arrived at the battle piecemeal. The hellish mix of languages made it hard to discern whether an individual unit was in trouble, or triumphing in face of the Nationalists. A delayed attack meant also that the artillery support they had been promised was not there, conspicuously absent as they began to charge up the hill. Rifle fire broke out almost immediately from both sides, a sound McCree was all too familiar with by now.

 

“Where the fuck’s our support?!” Rick shouted, becoming one with the dirt as another volley of Nationalist fire forced him to the ground.

Bob’s BAR continued to eject shells, the dull thump of his rifle providing a staccato bass to the otherwise light-sounding Mausers. McCree took it upon himself to fire at targets of opportunity, usually flanking groups that turned tail and ran at first contact. Ashe, meanwhile, wrestled with her sights, trying to adjust them for distance and keep her rate of fire up now that they were three rifles down. Despite the lack of artillery support, their advance seemed to be going well.

 

At least, it did until it stalled out completely. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but they were stuck in their position for the better part of forty five minutes, unable to move forward but equally unwilling to retreat.

“Hey!” Johnny shouted, hastily reloading his rifle with the few rounds he had left. “Didn’t those Krauts say we’d have airplanes?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

Johnny looked to the sky, scanning the endlessly blue horizon. “I dunno about all y’all, but I ain’t hearing no airplanes!”

 

“Goddammit,” Ashe muttered. “McCree, you see any Spanish officers around?”

“Not unless one of these Frenchies are hiding something,” McCree said.

Ashe scowled, her nose wrinkling as she growled. “Bob! How much ammo you got?!”

Bob shouted something back in German, causing Ashe to curse again. She rolled over on her side, calling for ammo counts within her gang. McCree could only claim four more reloads, while a lot of other guys had only one or two clips of rifle ammo left. Shaking her head, Ashe laid back down on the ground, looking ahead at the position they were supposed to take. On their left, the French – or maybe it was the Belgians, he wasn’t sure – started to run away.

 

“Hey, they’re retreating!” McCree yelled. “Think they know something we don’t?”

“Fuck it,” Ashe muttered. Shoving herself off the ground, she fired off a few rounds to keep the Nationalist’s heads down, waving her arm wide. “Come on!”

McCree got up as well, wincing in pain as he used his lame arm to shove himself up. He fired off a few shots at the opposing Nationalists, hoping to keep them suppressed and unable to shoot them in the back as they ran.

 

Come to think of it, McCree had never once heard a single big gun go off during the entire attack. McCree clutched his hat close to his head, dodging bullets the further away from the hill he got. By the time they had made it back to their motel, word had spread that the XI International Brigade, the very same one they had joined up with, had failed in their attempts to take the hill. Pointless battle for an objective that was clearly important. Lot of ammo spent shooting at a whole lot of nothing. Had they even gotten any Nationalists? McCree wasn’t sure.

 

November ended with one final attack, one that the gang did not participate in owing partially to the fact that Ashe wanted to keep them out of the action for a while, store up ammo and generally just rest for a while. The Nationalist attach had been centered on the University City quarter, and even though they claimed three thirds of the quarter, December rolled on Spain with a whimper rather than a bang. Occasional artillery and aerial bombardment provided a little bit of excitement, and kept McCree up at night. Despite the horror wracking Madrid, the locals didn’t seem to mind much, even as food became scarce. If anything, the population of Madrid seemed to maintain morale almost to spite the Nationalists.

 

McCree wondered how long this war would really last if the Nationalist attack on a city as important as Madrid had ground to a halt like this. Maybe this whole war would be over by the next summer. Or, maybe he was wrong, and it’d drag on for God knows how long. Hell, they thought this same kinda thing back when the Great War was on, and look how that turned out. He figured it was different when you were fighting your former brothers for your home, though. McCree wasn’t sure if he could pick up a gun to shoot Americans if there was a second American civil war.

 

Then again, maybe a lot of Spaniards didn’t think they’d have a civil war either.


	6. Stolen Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siege of Madrid enters a desperate stage as supplies fail to get through for Ashe's gang of anarchists.

Over December, the Republicans had moved parts of industry and supply running into Madrid down underground, to the metro system that snaked across Madrid. In order to secure further supplies for themselves, Ashe and McCree – just the two of them this time – headed into the metro. In theory, they’d have their supplies already, but in reality it was more common for them to have to negotiate with the Republican supply sergeants, jockeying with other units for bullets, food and water.

 

The metro was a dark, dirty place. The lights had been shattered by constant bombs and artillery, forcing them to work by candlelight and oil lamp in order to conduct business. This afternoon, another Nationalist artillery barrage was ongoing, shaking the metro’s tunnels and sending clouds of dust down practically every second. A bored-looking Spanish sergeant sat at a desk, writing on some kind of notebook despite his light source flickering on and off with each earth-shattering shot. He either didn’t hear them approaching, or didn’t care, barely looking up from his work.

 

“Come on, McCree,” Ashe said, leaning against a pillar. “Tell him what we’re here for.”

“Afternoon, Sergeant. We’re in need of some ammo and food.”

The sergeant looked up, arching an eyebrow at the pair. He licked his index finger, flipping his ledger over to another page. “I have you on my list as having already received your supplies for the week.”

“Well, that ain’t right. We’re on ten bullets for each man, food for two days at the most.”

He shrugged, returning to taking notes. “The ledger says you have it. If it says you do, then you do.”

 

McCree sighed, turning to Ashe. “He says we got supplies.”

“Tell him he’s fucking wrong,” she replied. “We need ammo and food.”

He turned back to the sergeant, who had gone back to not paying attention. “Listen, we don’t have them. My leader’s telling me we need that ammo and food. You don’t have _any_ around?”

“The ledger says you have what you need. If you did not have what you needed,” the supply sergeant said, clearly growing irritated with this line of questioning, “then the ledger would say so. This is the reality of the supply situation, anarchist.”

 

McCree looked at Ashe, shrugging. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this guy, and even if she didn’t speak Spanish, he could tell Ashe was getting the picture. Rolling her eyes, Ashe got off the post she was leaning against, marching over to the Spaniard and staring him down. If dirty looks could win wars, McCree was sure that these two would be the Republican’s secret weapons.

 _“We ain’t got the goddamn supplies,”_ Ashe growled, knowing full well the sergeant couldn’t understand English. “Tell him, McCree.”

“As I’m guessing you gathered, we need supplies,” McCree said, smoking a cigar. “Where can we find them?”

“The ledger says-”

“We don’t give a damn what the ledger says anymore. My leader’s getting a touch angry. Where do you keep bullets and food?”

 

The sergeant rolled his eyes, putting the pen down and, for once, standing up to face them. “I will tell you one more time, _anarchist,_ the ledger says you have what you need. I should remind you that while the government greatly appreciates your service, we are under no obligation to continue utilizing your… _skills._ Just as easily as I can give you supplies, I can have men take away your guns and arrest you as Nationalist spies.”

“McCree, what’d he-”

“Let’s go,” he said, backing away. Well, fine, if they didn’t want to give them what they needed, maybe they’d have to take an old fashioned approach to it. As they walked out of the metro, McCree could feel the eyes of the Spanish upon him, each soldier judging them with a scornful look as they walked past.

 

“I’m sure you’re surprised,” McCree said when they hit the surface. “They ain’t giving us supplies. Threatened to have us arrested.”

“What a joke,” Ashe muttered. “We need that food and ammo, McCree. We can’t survive on ten bullets and one loaf of bread.

McCree sighed, tapping away ashes on his cigar. “Yeah. I know. Reckon we might have go to back to our old tricks.”

“Thought this whole ‘People’s Army’ deal was supposed to make shit _easier,_ not harder. Dammit, McCree, we’re gonna need the whole gang if we want to pull this off.”

“Yeah, figured as much. Gonna have to plan this well, too. Something tells me these fellas aren’t slackers when it comes to keeping ammo under lock and key.”

Ashe hummed in agreement, moving out to head back to camp. A part of him had always figured that, at some point here in Spain, he’d be going back to robbing folk again.

 

* * *

 

 

Assembling the gang wasn’t hard. Most of them had been criminals anyway, so robbing the Spanish of their ammo and some food wasn’t above any of the men who had been gathered here. What _was_ hard was agreeing on a plan that didn’t involve a shootout with a company of Spanish Army regulars. Thankfully, cooler heads – and threats of extreme violence to be carried out by Bob – prevailed, and a much calmer, most methodical plan was decided upon.

 

The working theory was that Rick would distract the guards, making up some kind of excuse to draw them away from the door. From there, Ashe and McCree wold keep watch over Bob since he had the lockpicking skills necessary to break through the door quickly. Once the door was open, it was just a matter of moving enough ammo out that they could be supplied for a few days longer at least. If nothing else, they wouldn’t have to resort to fighting with their bayonets after a minute of shooting.

 

Food was different. Ashe said they didn’t need to get food from the military camps. Besides, she had said, the food they had was pretty terrible. No, Ashe and Bob had come up with another way around the food situation. “Just trust me.” Ashe had said. In the end, McCree had to. It wasn’t like he could do anything else, not thousands of miles away from home and with little more than a Mauser and a revolver.

 

McCree peered from around the corner, listening to Rick yell at the Spanish guards about something. With some hobbled translating, the two men followed Rick away from the area. Perfect. Ashe, McCree and Bob moved in not long after, keeping an eye out for anyone nearby who would take offense to breaking into a military setup. So far, so good. Bob’s lockpicking tools clinked away at the lock as he worked through it, occasionally quietly muttering in German as he did so.

 

A solid _click_ later, and the door was now unlocked. Bob shoved the door open, gesturing for the others to head in. Ashe and McCree were in first, grabbing up 8mm Mauser ammo and shoving it into bags, pockets, anything and everything that could store ammo. The others flowed in not long after, grabbing rounds and loose cartridges like kids at a candy store.

 

“Wrap it up!” Ashe said harshly. “I think they’re catching on.”

McCree heard angry Spanish coming from around the corner. Yup, definitely time to go. He left the room just as the guards shoved Rick into the little hallway. Swiftly turning heel, McCree left the area before the guards could round the corner, hearing them shout at whoever was too slow to get out to halt. Gunshots rang out not long after, bouncing off the former metro walls. Well, being quiet was out of the question now.

 

“McCree!” Ashe yelled. “You got your gun?!”

“Never leave home without it!”

One of the guards must have gotten on the PA system. A loud ringing filled the air, followed by a clear and deadly announcement – they had just found someone breaking into the ammo supply, and to be on the lookout for other thieves. Anyone not in a Spanish uniform was to be immediately arrested. The second half of the order didn’t need to be said – shoot if they resist.

 

“Here it comes!” Ashe shouted, taking cover behind a ticket counter. McCree and Bob joined her, with what was left of the quick ones in the gang right behind. He could hear the Spanish on the station floor, shouting to each other as the sound of about a hundred rifles cocking at once clattered. Bob didn’t have his BAR, and thus had taken ownership of McCree’s rifle in the meanwhile, at least until they could make it back to camp.

 

“What’s the plan here, Ashe?” McCree asked, pulling back the hammer on his revolver.

“I’m guessing they’re not taking too kindly to us taking their ammo,” Ashe said. “Gonna have to fight our way out. Entrance is across the platforms, right side.”

Johnny whistled, peeking out to look at the Spaniards in front of them. “Gotta be a hundred of ‘em out there.”

“Hope you’re good at running,” Ashe said, smirking.

McCree let out a slow breath of air, waiting for either the shooting to start or for Ashe to start running. Seconds later, it happened, and as it turned out the Spaniards had figured out their position first. A volley of rifle fire cascaded through the windows of the station, shattering the glass and spraying them with the shards. Ashe shouted at them to start running and shoot back, already replying in kind with her rifle. The oversized casings bounced off the floor as they fell, their bell-like ringing barely audible over the rifle fire that consumed the station.

 

McCree’s revolver became heavy as he fired back at the Spaniards, pushing with Bob and Ashe to try to make it to the next platform. It was a good thing the trains had stopped running long ago, otherwise that’d just be another element to worry about. Bullets pinged off the metal support beams, embedded themselves in the concrete, and tore through his poncho as he sprinted across the rails. Spanish mixed with their shouting in English as they tried to communicate with the rest of the gang, get them to move up with them.

 

“Fuck!” Ashe shouted as her rifle clicked. Faced with a Spaniard working his bolt, she swiftly pulled a bullet out from her pack. Instead of hoping the bolt would feed it correctly, Ashe opted to just shove the bullet directly down the barrel, slamming the bolt closed and firing once at the Spaniard, killing him. No time to mull over it – somebody was shooting at McCree now. Two shots from his revolver put that shooter down for good. Staircase out of the metro was in sight.

 

McCree rushed forward, firing at a handful of Spaniards that were hiding behind sandbags. No ammo, no time to reload, no option but to run up the stairs, out and away from these guys. Catching his breath at the top, McCree knelt over, wondering how many times this make that he had fought some government.

“I _love_ it when you do that,” Ashe said, patting him on the back.

“Bet you do,” he muttered. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They’re on the way,” she said. “We gotta _go.”_

He sighed, watching her run off with Bob right behind. God _damn,_ she looked great. He couldn’t help but wonder what his problem was, falling for a girl that was deadlier than anyone he’d ever tangled with.

 

* * *

 

 

Their little stunt apparently went unnoticed. News reached the gang that they would no longer be part of an independent unit, but instead were now folded into an all-American international brigade. Ashe was less than enthusiastic about the change, calling it pointless and a waste of time. Better to let them decide where to fight, rather than having to answer to some officer who didn’t give a shit about them. Alas, Ashe’s complaints fell on deaf ears, and they got their badges that signified their membership in the so-called “Lincoln Battalion” a week later.

 

 _Lincoln Battalion._ What a joke. McCree figured if Lincoln were alive now, he’d be laughing his head off at the absurdity of it all. A bunch of Americans fighting for some pointless war in Spain? It was almost too rich to be true. February was coming soon – maybe there’d be something to make life a little more interesting.


	7. Jarama Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Abraham Lincoln Battalion is sent into its trial by fire.

“So let me see if I got this right,” McCree asked, smoking a cigar as he listened to the pompous asshole in charge. “You want us to go across that valley and attack the Nationalists.”

“Yup,” the pompous asshole said. “That’s about the gist of it.”

McCree didn’t need to see her to know Ashe was pissed off about the ordeal. It was bad enough that the Spanish had taken control of her gang from her. Now they wanted her to listen to this shitbag? It was a good thing all of them were equally unenthusiastic about this plan of attack, otherwise McCree was afraid this clown would think some of them _were_ suicidal.

“Don’t look so glum,” the asshole said, walking away. “You’ll be doing a great thing, beating back the fascists. I’m sure you’ll all be compensated handsomely.”

 

Barely-contained scoffs and hollow laughs emanated from their ranks. McCree wondered how many other folk he had sent to his death like that. Didn’t he realize that they had already been fighting? Already knew what the Nationalists were capable of? This guy hadn’t said anything about having support. What would that mean when the fight came? Were they just supposed to charge across this field without anyone backing them up?

“Fucking useless,” Ashe muttered, spitting on the ground. “Reckon they’re gonna get pissed if we don’t do it. Let’s get ready, guys.”

 

* * *

 

 

The day was cloudy as they approached Jarama Valley. They walked past trench lines filled with weary, bloodied Republican troops, who stared at them with hollow eyes that were glazed over. McCree wasn’t dumb – he knew they were being sent to their deaths. He knew that these soldiers were looking at them like a bunch of dead men walking. Maybe they already were. The trenches zigzagged across the hills, with the occasional crater that must have been where bombs or artillery hit earlier this month.

 

“Look alive,” their captain said, flicking the safety off on his rifle. “We’re going to be taking fire soon.”

Ashe pulled the bolt of her rifle back, checking to make sure she had a round loaded. Bob readjusted his BAR in his hands, while others unslung their rifles. Distant rifle fire bounced around the empty valley, occasionally interrupted by the smooth droning of a machine gun somewhere down the line. The heat was rising – even in February, Spain was blazing hot. It seemed almost improbable to him, at least it would have been if he hadn’t lived in the Southwest his whole life.

 

The bullets started heading their way before they even got over the top of the trenches, kicking up tiny clouds of dirt and almost immediately nailing Johnny. He fell wordlessly back into the trench, regarded with indifference by the regulars that kept their heads down and ignored the world around them. By the time McCree got out of the trench, Ashe, Bob and those left were halfway across the field, sprinting like no tomorrow. McCree picked up the pace, trying to match their speed and at least keep up, if only to make sure that he wouldn’t prove a tempting target for a Nationalist sharpshooter. His arm had healed up by now, though it was definitely still sore.

 

The rifle fire raked the grass as they ran towards the fascist stronghold. McCree paused for only a split second to fire back, finding his shot going wider than expected. He could see Ashe just ahead of him, running with one hand on her hat, the other clutching her rifle’s handguard. Rick had a bundle of German stick grenades on his belt, yanking the long pin and throwing them as far as his arm could go to the enemy lines. He could hear Spanish emanating from the trenches, mixed with Bob’s BAR firing off magazine after magazine. Time to jump in and settle this the old-fashioned way.

 

With Bob’s 30-06 bullets ricocheting behind him, McCree tossed his Mauser aside, opting to resort to his revolver in the trenches. No room to maneuver the long rifle, anyway, and it would be far easier to reload the revolver than try to jam rifle cartridges in. Nationalist ran in from one of the trench kinks, and took a bullet to the chest for his troubles. He could hear Ashe screaming something behind him, her rifle firing above all else.

 

He took his eyes off the corner of the trench for one second, looking to check on Ashe, when again he took a round. How did these fucks keep hitting his left fucking arm? He fell to the floor of the trench, dust immediately covering him as he tried to find a shot on the motherfucker that’d got him. _There he was._ One, two, three missed shots, fourth one got him.

 _“McCree!”_ Ashe screamed. Before he was aware of it, busy looking at his dust-covered and bloody arm, she was kneeling over him. Panic was in her eyes, trying to figure out what to do.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Sorry, Ashe, didn’t think this would happen again.”

“Don’t fucking – just, _shut up,_ okay?” she asked, her hands hovering over him. What was she trying to do? Give him first aid or something? Panting heavily, Ashe grabbed her canteen, unscrewing the cap and pouring water over the area. Alright, at least it was a little less bloody and dusty now.

 

“Y’ain’t happen to have a bandage on you, huh?” McCree asked, trying to reach for his first aid pouch. _Fuck,_ it was on his left side, not his right. Stupid, McCree, stupid.

“Okay, this is fine,” Ashe muttered, even as the sound of a machine gun echoed. “Bob! _Bob!_ Where the _fuck_ are you?!”

Grumbling something incoherently, Ashe ripped a bandage out of her hip pouch, angrily – and inaccurately – wrapping it around McCree’s arm. Pretty tight, but shit, wasn’t like he could do much about it right now. She checked the wrap, satisfied with her work, and then grabbed McCree’s hand, pulling him up.

 

“Now you fucking listen here,” she said, drawing him close enough that their hats curled up against each other. _“Stop fucking getting shot._ You’re too important for me to lose.” Her tone said “don’t do it again or I’ll shoot you” but here eyes were saying something else entirely. Her eyes were telling McCree that this had turned into more than a business arrangement. He thought he had been going insane. He thought that what he as feeling was the delusions of a man who spent too long on the road hopped up on morphine, chasing whispers that weren’t there. Hell, he thought he’d finally gone crazy.

 

McCree paused, furrowing his brow as he stared back at Ashe. “Are you saying-” The sound of a grenade going off cut off his question. Right when he got his bearings about him again, Ashe had already disappeared, fixing her bayonet and charging down the trenches. He heard the tell-tale sign of a lumbering German behind him – Bob.

“Where is _Frau Ashe?”_ he asked, shoving a new magazine into his rifle.

McCree sighed, waving his near-empty revolver down the trench. “Somewhere over there. Why?”

Bob said nothing, instead looking up and following Ashe’s path of destruction and blood.

 

Already he could hear the screams of dying Nationalists, and with not much else to do, McCree joined Bob in tracking Ashe down. They passed bodies of men who had been shot, those who had been stabbed, and people who had been _both_ shot and stabbed. Their blood mixed with the dirt in the trenches, shiny crimson mixing with a dull, almost plastic red. Ashe’s rifle rang out again and again, interrupted by the sound of terrified dying men.

 

About twenty five yards down the trench, they found Ashe, covered in blood from head to toe. Her eyes, typically hazel, now seemed like they had absorbed the blood that hadn’t gotten on her shirt. Her fingers twitched, threatening to let loose the grip on her rifle at any moment, the bayonet dripping blood onto the little mortar pit that held the remains of a Nationalist crew. A moaning soldier – no, he was more like a kid – leaned up against the wall clutched his stomach.

 

“Ashe,” McCree said, trying to make sure he didn’t get stabbed in the process of calming her down. “You good here?”

She stared back at him, rage-consumed eyes glaring. She was about to say something, but paused, turning her attention to the dying kid nearby. Shouldering her rifle, Ashe pulled the trigger once, working the bolt and ejecting a cartridge. “I’m fine,” she said. “Where’s everyone else?”

 _“Frau Ashe,”_ Bob said, transferring his BAR to one hand and taking off his hat. “We appear to be the only survivors. Yourself, me, _Herr McCree,_ and _Herr Donaldson.”_

 

Ashe looked down, her wide-brimmed hat hiding her eyes. “Where’s that fucking officer?”

 _“Hauptmann Merriman_ is wounded. He was evacuated twenty minutes after the battle started.”

“Go get Rick,” she ordered, waving Bob off. “Fuck orders. We’re gonna retreat.”

Bob nodded, turning around and putting his hat back on. Despite the inherent danger, Ashe still stood around, unable to keep her eyes off the ground. McCree dared to inch closer, trying to gauge what her response would be if he were so bold as to put a hand on her shoulder.

 

“This ain’t what we were supposed to do,” she said quietly.

“What d’you mean?”

She sighed, looking up at him. Her makeup was positively ruined, streams of black falling down her face like the blood that stained her clothes and the walls of the trenches. “We were supposed to help people, McCree. _I_ was supposed to help people. Pay back my debt, all the fucking privilege I had in being a rich girl.” In a flash, she bowed her head again, ashamed of herself almost. “Can’t do that if we’re all dead.”

 

McCree reached out, putting his good hand on her shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Hey, look at me.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, Ashe tilted her head back up, her face full of even more despair if that were even possible. He didn’t think he’d _ever_ see her this broken. Hell, if she’d been broken before, Ashe had never let him see it.

“It’s gonna be alright,” he said, unsure if he really believed the words himself. “Listen, even if we ain’t got the whole gang…we got us. That’s what matters, right?”

Another deep breath, an uneasy shift of weight. Ashe’s eyes fell to the wayside, then lifted up to meet his. “Yeah. I got _you,_ ” she said. Surprising even him, Ashe leaned in, closing her eyes and kissing him. Despite the ambush, McCree found himself kissing back just as passionately as she wrapped her arms around him. The distant gunfire faded away and turned to white noise, and soon nothing else mattered but the feeling of Ashe’s soft, warm lips against his own, the closeness and comfort he had been sorely missing for what felt like a lifetime.

 

Slowly, Ashe broke off, her hat having been pushed off and on the ground now. She nudged his hat up, resting her forehead against his and letting out a soft, weary sigh. “I ain’t any good at this, McCree. But I know damn well that my dumb ass is falling for you.”

“You ain’t gotta be good at anything,” he said, pulling her close. “You and I. We’ll make this work. I know we will.”

Her head fell into his shoulder as she allowed herself to be enveloped by McCree’s embrace. Her tears had stopped by now, replaced by slow, soft breathing. “Yeah,” she muttered, so quiet he almost didn’t hear her. “I reckon you’re right.” Just as quickly as she had showered him with affection, she abandoned him, pulling away to grab her hat and replace it on her head. “Come on. Bob and Rick are gonna be wondering where the fuck we are.”


	8. Show Your Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble is brewing in the Republican camp.

The front fell quiet after the battle of Jarama. Following the horrific battle, where reportedly nearly 65 percent of the battalion was killed or wounded, sent into the battle with little more than a handful of rounds and virtually no training, they had been sent to slaughter. They couldn’t have been more appropriately named. Lincoln and his battalion, both victims of assassination, held up as martyrs after the fact.

 

Sure, McCree, Ashe, and Bob, they had the benefit of having spent a year in Spain fighting, but the rest of the battalion was new, fresh volunteers that had just come over from the United States. They were in no position to fight, and McCree was pretty sure everyone there knew it. So, for the meantime, they waited. Waited for orders. Waited for the Nationalists to attack. Waited for _something._

 

In order to make up for the casualties, the government had filled their ranks with Spaniards, probably to be able to claim full numbers. With few who spoke English anymore, McCree, Ashe, Bob and Rick stuck by each other, as much as Rick would rather be anywhere but here. Ashe kept to herself most of the time, only allowing Bob nearby. But, in the quiet moments, and at night, when Rick had retired for the evening, she would head over to McCree. Together they’re spend at least a little time, but never long.

 

“We don’t have to stay here, you know,” McCree told her one night.

She barely stirred, leaning against his shoulder with her eyes closed, her hair covering her face. “What are you talking about?”

“In Spain,” he said. “We can go back home. Make a life together.”

Ashe scoffed, shaking her head slowly. “We can’t _go_ back, McCree. Jesus, you’re still a wanted man and Daddy’s been looking for me for _years._ Hell, if he knew…”

 

Her words hung in the air, an aborted phrase that he didn’t need to hear. _If he knew I was in love with **you.**_ McCree wasn’t dumb, he knew what kind of look that gave off to rich folk. He knew what his life looked like to the kind of people that hadn’t ever walked a field to work it before. McCree wrapped his arm around her, squeezing her tight as if to reassure her everything would be okay. Ashe didn’t cry often – he figured that day on Jarama’s hill would be the first and last time he saw it – but he could feel her arrested sobs, every little shake of her shoulders.

 

“Hey,” he said quietly, cupping his hand on her face. “It’s okay. S’rough, I know.”

“We ain’t built to be like this, McCree,” she said. “People aren’t supposed to be this fuckin’ sad all the time.”

“Nothing we can’t overcome together, darling.”

She shoved herself off him, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You don’t get it. Fucking never will.”

“Get what?”

 

She laughed. Hollow, empty, like someone had told a joke she hated hearing. “You really gotta fucking ask, don’t you?”

“Well, no shit I had to ask,” McCree shot back, no longer under any pretenses of trying to be quiet. “You haven’t been yourself since Jarama. What’s going on with you?”

“Jarama was a mistake.”

He scoffed, not sure what she was really aiming for this this. “Well, hell, you can say _that_ again.”

 

“I’m trying to be fucking _serious!_ How blind _are_ you, McCree?! Are you really this stupid that you can’t see the problem sitting here staring us in the eyes? Do I have to spell it out for you? Do I need crayons and draw it out?!”

McCree scowled, narrowing his eyes at her. “I ain’t stupid, Ashe. Don’t treat me like I am.”

“Then understand me, goddammit! This won’t _work!_ After Spain, after here, it’s _done!_ We can’t do anything! Is that clear enough for you?”

“Well, shit Ashe, we…hell, I dunno, maybe…maybe there’s a-”

 

“If you got a point, McCree, you oughta make it.”

He groaned, trying to figure out how to make it sound good, the way she always did. Guess that’s the benefit of a fancy education. You get to know all the neat words that makes depressing shit sound better. “I didn’t think I’d be coming to Spain to this. I thought this was just some simple bank job or something, hell, I don’t know _what_ I thought. I ain’t never knew my parents, you know that?”

“What the hell does that matter?”

“Never had much in the way of family. Whoever I was off doing crime with was who I called my family. Figured y’all were just some short-time cousins or something, you know? But nah, y’all are…y’all are something else, especially you, Ashe. I don’t know what’s got you so worked up, and I can’t figure out an answer to make you smile again, but I’ll be here ‘till you do.”

 

He left it there, sliding next to her and putting his arm around Ashe’s shoulders. She didn’t resist this time, instead sitting there like a statue. The silence continued, the cool night air dusting away leaves and broken awnings as cicadas trilled. Slowly, the only thing he was aware of was his and Ashe’s slow, soft breathing.

“I hate it when you do that,” she finally said.

“Do what?”

“Smooth-talk like some radio fella.”

McCree chuckled, leaning his head against hers. He didn’t look over to see it, but he was sure she was smiling now. If nothing else, he could feel her start to warm back up again. Maybe he _was_ good at this after all.

 

Bob lumbered into the room, and in a flash, Ashe was off him, acting as if she had rejected the idea of anything with McCree her entire life. As he walked in, Bob cast a disapproving eye on McCree, handing Ashe a note of some kind.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “Is this for real?”

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

McCree’s eyes darted between the two, lost as to what was going on. It was late, _real_ late, what kind of message were they going to be getting at this hour? Ashe ran a hand through her hair, vein practically popping out of her forehead.

“They’re sending us to another fight.”

 

* * *

 

 

The noon sun hung high in the air, occasionally covered up by a passing airplane. Distant whistling could be heard, followed up by rolling explosions. Behind them, a tank rolled around, the crew shouting in some kind of foreign language. Wasn’t Spanish, that was for sure. Cool day, not quite enough water in his canteen.

 

An angry Ashe at his back didn’t much help things.

 

Somebody blew a whistle, and they began pushing against the Italian lines. Tiny, almost comically small tanks rolled up a crest, demolished instantly by friendly tanks. Machine guns started opening up almost immediately, forcing them to start ducking as they ran to the enemy trenches. All except for Bob, of course, standing tall and firing away with his BAR. It was almost like clockwork, the way they came up on trenches like this.

 

Dust began to be kicked up, not just by their tanks but by the weapons fire. Bullets bounced off the armor of the tanks as the sound of bombs falling on the Italian lines grew louder. Where was Ashe? He could hear her rifle firing, but couldn’t see _her._ Spanish mixed with the Italian that was emanating from the trenches, occasionally peppered with something from Rick or Ashe.

 

Helpless Italian trucks sat stuck in the mud, easy targets as Republican fighters dived low, strafing them with machine gun fire. Ashe waved them forward, jumping into the trench. Bob, Rick and McCree were right behind her, watching waves of Italian infantry run away. On his left, Ashe was quietly inserting new rounds into her rifle’s magazine.

 

“Well, hell,” Rick muttered. “That was easy.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rick,” Ashe said. The rifle fire started to die down, over almost as fast as it began. Spanish sergeants shouted at lower soldiers to move captured machine guns around, while tanks continued to roll and spread dust and dirt around.

McCree lit up a cigar, resting his Mauser against the trench wall. “Always heard Italians sucked at fighting. Didn’t think it’d be this bad.”

Ashe said nothing, just staring at the open field in front of them that was covered in mud and blood. Italian trucks, full of holes from being strafed by Republican planes, stood like monuments to death itself. Eventually, Rick wandered off somewhere else, examining an Italian machine gun while Bob set to quietly cleaning his weapon.

 

“So, Ashe,” McCree said quietly. “About last night…”

“Do you really think now’s the time, McCree?”

Puffing on the cigar, watching a ring of smoke drift away with the wind, McCree couldn’t help but wonder. “There ever gonna _be_ a good time?”

Ashe was about to answer, when distant booms erupted. That wasn’t friendly artillery. Bob shouted to take cover, and one by one they ducked into the trench that the Italians once occupied, now hoping their shovel work would protect them from an artillery onslaught. Mud was sent flying across the area, covering McCree’s rifle. Just as quickly as it had faded away, the rifle fire came back in force.

 

First shot from McCree’s rifle came out alright. Bolt was rough, had to beat it back in place. Third round he had to take out of the breech with his hands, the hot brass still smoking as he tossed it away. He shoved the bolt back forward, but couldn’t turn it down enough. Smacking it didn’t help like it had last time. Didn’t want to come back, either. _Shit._ Alright, no point in fucking around with this. McCree tossed his rifle away, pulling out his revolver.

 

The Italians continued to charge across the field, nearing the trench lines. McCree could see them now, their faces, their gray uniforms, the flashes from their rifles. Bullets whizzed past his head, as captured Italian machine guns cracked on both sides of him. The sound of his pistol firing, the clatter of a machine gun, Ashe screaming as she drove her bayonet into an Italian, all came together like a symphony, orchestrated by Death itself. Five minutes passed with the Italians constantly throwing themselves at their trenches. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. An hour later, and still the Italians persisted.

 

Ashe had run out of ammunition by now, but she still fought with all the vigor she had. She leaped out of the trench several times to kill Italian troops with her bayonet, and when she couldn’t get them with that, simply beat the hell out of them. Artillery continued to fall, until the dirt mixed with the very air itself.

 

The battle turned less into a formal military affair, and began to resemble more a barroom brawl. The madness of combat turned deadly as Italians and Spaniards alike fell, screaming and kicking into the brutal ruthlessness of the day. Screams echoed in his ears, overpowered if just for a split second by weapons fire. What felt like an eternity passed, until eventually, the Italians turned tail and ran again, having spilled for more blood over the trenches than was ever necessary.

 

In defiance of it all stood Ashe, her weapon and her clothes bloodied. Around her were the bodies of what must have been dozens of Italians, their gray uniforms highlighted ith green undertones and crimson blood. Moans from the last dying rattles of these men emanated from the circle of hell she occupied, her shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath.

 

“Bob,” she said, barely even turning to look at them. “Make sure this is clear. We capture any fascists? I want to kill them myself.”

“Understood, _Frau Ashe,”_ Bob said, slinging his BAR on his back. “All fascists are to be executed by your hand.”

Ashe nodded, wandering around the trenches before pausing over a body. McCree looked down at the poor fellow – he was writhing around, clutching his side where blood spilled over his hands. She gestured to Bob, bending her fingers at him. He pulled out an old Luger, passing it grip-first to Ashe. Wordlessly, she aimed it at the Italian, pulling the trigger until it went click.

 

Tossing the pistol back to Bob, Ashe stepped over the bleeding Italian, now deathly still and no longer moaning. His eyes were completely glazed over, staring to the sky that was, by now, starting to darken with the telltale signs of an approaching storm. How was McCree supposed to respond to this? Just ignore it and hope it got better? Something was foul here, and it wasn’t the bodies of the Italians.


	9. Nothing Left to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe opens up to McCree, but perhaps not in the way he expected.

Another day, another round of waiting in the trenches.

 

Sleet pelted them without end, tiny pellets of ice that bounced off hats and gathered in the trenches. McCree couldn’t see past maybe about fifty yards, the fields of Guadalajara a gray mass of unfathomable depth. Occasionally, Ash took her hat off to shake away the ice, watching it roll and bounce on the trench floor. If he felt inclined to turn his rifle over, McCree could have made a pile of ice pellets, like filling up a coal train. The chronically distasteful weather put to an end any hopes of friendly planes flying, unable to get a target or even survive in the unending downpour of sleet.

 

The Spaniards sent word down the line – they’d be crossing the pontoon bridge today to attack the Italians. In theory, they were supposed to have stepped off at dawn, but the sleet stopped that hope like many others. Wordlessly, Ashe, Bob, McCree and Rick got out of the trench, stepping over the dropped rifles and pools of dried blood. The march to the pontoon bridge proved slow, in part due to the reluctance of the unit to actually head to the front, and also because the heavy sleet only increased in intensity. The torrent of ice only lasted for a second, however, as almost immediately after slamming down on them, the sleet let up, dark clouds passing away to show clear – or relatively clear – blue skies for miles.

 

Somebody blew a whistle, the international signal to attack. On top of a hill sat a small village, its buildings wrecked by constant bombardment. Planes must have gotten airborne – he could hear engines roaring, sailing overhead towards the Italians. How many foreign armies were here? Russians had provided the tanks, if he was inclined to listen to Bob. Germans were on the other side, alongside the Italians that they were shooting up today. Hell, McCree’s own unit had guys from the United States, Canada, Ireland, not to mention the fellas he had met last month, that hellish brigade made up of so many different people it was almost improbable.

 

Out of all the soldiers he saw, where were the Spaniards? Were the men in his unit the only ones left to fight over Spain? Gunfire echoed from the hilltop, bringing McCree back to the hellish world he inhabited. Mortars thumped in the distance, whistling as the bombs fell on both the Italians and on them, marring their otherwise decent-looking uniforms with dirt. Somebody was singing loud and proud, a vibrant song about how they’d beat the Italians soundly without problem.

 

Ashe picked up her pace, loose ammo jangling about in her hip pouches. The world began to narrow as he headed up the slope, focusing on the pile of sandbags at the crest of the hill. Even the noise of bombs and Bob’s BAR faded away, a dull roaring noise in McCree’s ears. Good thing he had found time to clean off his rifle. Bolt worked smoothly now, almost like it had never been fouled up in the first place. He charged over the sandbags, taking it from the previous Italian occupants. Empty buildings left, right, center. Where had the other Italians gone?

 

He got the answer a few moments later when the sound of Ashe’s rifle rang out, breaking through his hyperfocused cloud. Where was it coming from? Sounded far away, too far away to be near where he had climbed up the hill. No Spaniards, no Italians as far as he could see. Sound was coming back, he could hear the tanks rolling around behind him, the creaking and groaning of the tracks against steel and rubber wheels. Planes overhead, distant machine gun fire that spoke of a dogfight in the skies.

 

But where was Ashe?

 

McCree sprinted between a pair of wrecked buildings, the floors spilling out to the ground he stood on. Old wallpaper, better suited to a grandma’s kitchen than a modern Spanish house, lined the walls alongside pictures he didn’t care to look at too closely. His impromptu shortcut brought him to what passed for a city square, a round fountain flanked by houses and shops with busted awnings. Ashe was in cover near the fountain, shoving rounds into her rifle and occasionally flinching when a bullet landed too close for comfort.

 

She had her back to the Italians, didn’t see one with a weird-looking gun rounding the corner. McCree shouldered his rifle, squeezing the trigger and sending a bullet right at the fuck’s chest. Ashe looked up, equal parts confused and freaked the fuck out, furrowing her brow when she saw McCree standing there. A machine gun raked the square, broke the few remaining white tiles on the fountain. McCree waited a few seconds, until the gunner had to reload. Once he was sure it was clear, he bolted across the open area, keeping his hat on top his head and sliding next to Ashe.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you maniac?” Ashe asked, working the bolt to load her rifle.

“Saving you from getting turned into Swiss cheese,” he said, nodding towards the dead Italian.

Ashe’s had turned toward the body, her hair bobbing about. She scoffed, shifting herself around so she could start shooting back. “Well, shit. Thanks for that, McCree.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 

Rifle fire filled the air again, and once again McCree’s ears filtered out the noise as he only cared about listening to Ashe’s callouts and finding Italians to shoot at. The firefight must have taken the better half of an hour, until eventually the Italians turned tail and ran, seemingly without reason. The sound of gunfire died down, replaced by someone shouting in Spanish. The sergeants were going around, ordering them to clear the town of the remaining Italians.

 

McCree watched a smile creep across Ashe’s face as he translated for her. It wasn’t the kind of smile he’d expect if he had just told her that he’d brought roses, and hey, a fancy dinner was on the table too. No, it was the kind of smile that he’d only reckon came from someone bent in the mind. Hell, he didn’t expect that to come from Ashe. It seemed like last week, the two of them were on top of the world, but today…today it was like nothing mattered. Actually, that wasn’t true – something _did_ matter to Ashe.

 

Killing fascists.

 

She toured the village, kicking in doors and dragging out helpless Italians, each one pleading for mercy. Ashe clearly did not care. She threw them out onto the dusty roads, laughed as they tried to run, smiled when she took the shot that killed them. Occasionally, one would be too wounded for her to take pleasure in hunting down like a dog, and so for these she opted to stab them with her bayonet, gritting her teeth almost as much as the blade ground against their bones.

 

“Who the hell even are you anymore?” McCree asked as the last Italians wheezed for the final time.

She yanked a black piece of cloth from her pocket, wiping the blood off her bayonet and removing any trace of the crime she had committed. “I’m Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe,” she said. “Why? Who did you think I was?”

“I _thought_ you were better than this,” he spat, ripping his hat off, hand running through unwashed hair, wiping away grease, sweat and – hopefully – frustration. “Goddammit Ashe, what happened to _helping_ people? Wasn’t that all you wanted to do?”

 

Ashe paused, her eyes loitering over the Italian she stood over, his blood barely reaching her black boots. The faintest show of emotion crossed Ashe’s face, there and gone like a muzzle flash in the night. Her smile faded as hollow, jaded eyes glanced up to meet his own. “It was. Is. McCree, I thought I made that clear.”

“Only thing you made _clear_ is that you don’t give a damn about me,” McCree growled. “I mean, did you really think you could just _do_ that to me and then toss me aside like it was nothing?”

She looked away, slinging her rifle on her back. “I ain’t talking to you about this here, McCree. This ain’t the time or place.”

“Is there _ever_ going to be a time or place?! Or are you just going to keep avoiding this until we fucking _die_ here?!”

Ashe shook her head as she walked away, unwilling to even so much as look back at him. “Not now. Not here.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Italians did not attempt further attacks week, and a subsequent attempt at another breakthrough by Republican forces ended in a stalemate. In return for spending a week plus on the front lines, the Abraham Lincoln Battalion was allowed to rotate back into Madrid, where the bombing runs were a little bit less intense. Sure, each Nationalist plane that flew overhead wrecked another building, forced them to take cover behind something solid in hopes that if a bomb _did_ hit them, then maybe they could be protected.

 

Not much could shield them from Ashe, though.

 

She and McCree didn’t talk the entire way back to camp as Bob stood by her side, stoically staring down anyone who dared to approach her. McCree hung back, smoking cigars to try and forget the pain he had endured. How dare Ashe. What gave her the right to toss him away like a used towel? Smoking was easy, didn’t give him second doubts about what he was doing. Smoking never made him feel worthless.

 

The sky had turned from the blue afternoon to a midnight-tinged hue as they shuffled into abandoned buildings, the distant sound of echoing gunfire off somewhere else in the city. He had heard somewhere that a brigade of Poles were trying to make headway against the Nationalists. If only for their sake, McCree wished them luck. Couldn’t give them too much, though. He’d need it if the Nationalists came for Madrid again. Tonight’s choice of shelter appeared to be an old apartment building, the roof caved in by either bombs or artillery, hard to tell.

 

Whether by dumb luck or fate, McCree had been shoved into the same room as Ashe, with virtually nobody willing to swap rooms. Thus, he had no choice but to confront the issue in front of him. Lying on the bed, Ashe continually tossed and turned, groaning practically every second.

“We gotta talk about it sometime, Ashe,” McCree finally ventured to say.

“Fuck,” she muttered, throwing her hand as if she were slinging away her cares. “Goddammit, you’re persistent, you know that?”

“Ain’t that why you picked me up?”

 

Her head lolled to the side, arching an eyebrow at him. “I went and grabbed you from that Texas bar because I knew you were a hell of a fighter. I was right.”

“That all I am to you?” McCree asked, puffing away on a cigar. “Just a gun you can pick up and toss away?”

Ashe’s eyes darted away, finding something far more interesting to look at on the floor. “It ain’t like that,” she said quietly, almost regretful if he didn’t know better. “You don’t get it.”

“Funny thing. You said that _last_ time we was here in Madrid.”

 

“Because it’s the _truth,_ you fucking asshole,” Ashe said, shaking her head. She put a hand on her face, eyes shut, taking a deep breath in. Might have been trying to calm herself. “You don’t _get_ what I’ve been through.”

He scoffed, trying to reckon what in the _world_ she could have been talking about. “Yeah, I bet a rich girl had _so_ much to worry about. Not at all like being me, forgotten and abandoned by everyone. Must’ve been tough.”

“Why do you think I lost it with Rick last year, huh? Why do you think I don’t get _close_ to people? It’s not some fucking _act,_ McCree, it’s -” She stopped herself, sniffed like there was something foul in the air. “Fuck it. Not like _you_ care.”

 

McCree tapped away some ashes off his cigar, sighing. “Do _you_ think I would’ve kissed you back if I didn’t care at least a little? Who the hell do you think I am? I’m not something to just throw away and be used, goddammit! I thought we were solid, and then you pushed me away like it was nothing!”

He could feel the heat rising in himself, the telltale anger that had won him too many nights in a jail cell, too many breaks on a bar room floor, one too many fistfights he shouldn’t have taken on. He heard the chair squeal behind him as he kicked it away, standing up and tossing the finished cigar off to who-knows-where.

“Goddammit, Ashe, _I love you._ If it wasn’t for that, I’d have been gone a long fucking time ago. If you think I don’t care about you, well then hell, I guess I never really loved you in the first place.”

 

His words hung in the air, like a guilty man at the gallows. He didn’t dare to face Ashe, fearful of what she was about to say. He could hear her taking long, thoughtful breaths, until ultimately a single, final one escaped her lips.

“McCree, I ain’t ever been good at this kinda stuff. Will you look at me?”

Turning back, he saw her looking up at him, a frown inscribed on her face, mottled black eyeliner all around her eyes. He didn’t even hear her cry once.

“You know what’s terrible about privilege, McCree? It makes you a different person. Desensitizes you to what’s _normal._ I thought it was normal for folk to be shitty to each other all the time. People ain’t supposed to beat the hell out of each other, McCree.”

 

“What’re you saying?”

She smirked, but her smile wasn’t joyful. It was the kind of smile you gave when life had hit you with something so stupid, you couldn’t help but laugh at it. “You ever hear what I was first arrested for?”

“Tall tales always said it was something with an old flame.”

“Something like that. Boyfriend got a bit too hands-on one night. I told him to shove off, he don’t like that too much. I come back with a baseball bat and fuck up his car.”

 

“Huh,” McCree muttered. “Well, that ain’t too ba-”

“And his face.”

McCree’s eyebrows jumped up, and he whistled. “Yeah, that’ll do it. Shit, Ashe, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Who wants to be with a girl that’s broken?” she asked, her voice wavering. “I pushed you away because I was afraid of what was gonna happen. Afraid of losing you. Can’t let it happen. Not again.”

 

McCree stepped closer to her, kneeling so he could put a hand on her shoulder and look her in the eyes. Level with her, not look down on her. “Listen, I’m not the best at this either,” he admitted. “Like I told you at Jarama, we got each other. That’s what matters, alright?”

She swallowed, slowly closing her eyes and nodding as she took his other hand, interleaving her fingers with his. “Yeah,” Ashe said. “You’re right. I just wanna be good enough.”

“You’re already good enough for me, darling.”

“Careful with that, cowboy,” she said, smirking. “Might start making me think I love you, too.”


	10. Fallen Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree has second thoughts about Spain.

How long had it been? More than a few months, honestly.

 

That was underestimating it. It had been nearly a year now. May of 1938, and still Madrid held strong, a city under complete and total siege. The Nationalists had long abandoned prospects of attacking the city directly, instead opting to bomb it day and night like clockwork. McCree had even set his watch to the bomb runs, and they started giving specific bombers nicknames. Tiny Tim liked wrecking the commercial sector. Barry gave the anti-air gunners over on the eastern side a run for their money, and something to do. Unanimously, though, the Motherfucker bombarded them every second day, rocking the various buildings they called home with almost no breaks.

 

Slowly, the Republican air force began to be whittled away, until even the casual observer like McCree could see the Nationalists had almost complete control of the air. Enemy bombers raided the few remaining roads into the city, slicing the vein on supply lines to the meager trickle that came from the metro. Food became scarce, and ammo was at a premium. The citizens of Madrid, who had prided themselves on “business as usual” last year, were now obviously affected by the war. If it wasn’t already difficult to keep morale up, the already-tattered Abraham Lincoln Brigade now had to stay in Madrid, surrounded by Madrilenians who looked upon them with scornful eyes. _You were supposed to help us,_ their silent, undeclared thoughts shouted. _Where are your brave songs now?_

 

The year had not been kind to the cause Ashe claimed to champion for. Even if he had never been aware of it before, the Soviet presence grew to be clear as day. Russians crowded the planning tables, hung around ammo dumps, sat in the tanks and fought Italians and Germans almost as often as the Spanish. He had heard grumbling from some officers a few times, hushed whispers about growing Soviet influence that not everyone agreed with.

 

He had ventured the topic with Ashe a few times, figured she’d know more than him, but she always shut it down, said as long as the Republicans held up their bargains after the war, it would be fine. It made him wonder if Ashe saw the same reality that he did, the deteriorating situation the Republicans were in. Sure, they still held Madrid, but the industrial heartland of Spain had been lost to the Nationalists.

 

Of all things, their little group was divided by a handful of prisoners.

 

McCree wasn’t sure where they had come from – all he really cared about at this point was

keeping himself and Ashe alive long enough to get back home – but he stood here, looking at four Nationalists prisoners, supposedly captured by the Abraham Lincoln Brigade and handed over to Ashe for safekeeping. Who had elected to do this was beyond McCree’s powers of speculation, but hell, here they were, kept in line by Bob looming over them with his BAR.

 

“This ain’t fuckin’ right,” Rick said, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “They’re kids, Ashe.”

“Kids fighting for fascists,” she snapped back as she slammed a shot of whiskey. She had never much been a drinker before, but lately, it seemed like the only escape any of them had. “You know my rules, Rick. You know what I’m about here.”

McCree looked over the prisoners, each one keeping his head low. Rick was right – they were pretty young. Lot younger than the Nationalists he remembered fighting in last week’s skirmish. What was it Johnny always said? _I ain’t getting any younger, but the soldiers are?_

 

“That fucking justifies killing kids?!? How the _fuck_ can you talk this away?! You know what, I fucking believed all your shit over the years, Ashe, but this is where I draw the goddamn line, you hear me!? You’re out of your mind!”

In a flash, Ashe had thrown the glass she was using against the wall, drawing all eyes to its impact as it shattered and showered the prisoners. Silence hung in the air as Ashe clenched her fist, breathing deeply and seething with anger.

“Have I _ever_ asked for your fucking opinion, Rick?” Ashe said, her eyes shut in anger. “Even once? Tell me if you remember, right now.”

 

Rick refused to answer, his eyes darting back and forth as he tried to respond to her. “That’s what I thought,” Ashe muttered, turning and staring at him. “Ever thought about the _reason_ why I never asked, Rick?”

“I dunno,” he said, voice full of venom. “Same reason you been a raging bitch since ‘35?”

“Hey now,” McCree warned, hand hovering over his pistol.

Rick scoffed, shaking his head. “Oh, I’m sorry, McCree. Are you upset that I’m saying your girlfriend is a _fucking psycho?”_

“It’s because you’re a fucking idiot, Rick!” Ashe shouted. “The _only_ goddamn reason I kept you around was because Lyman would never have run with us if you weren’t there too! Just his luck you were so _goddamn enthusiastic_ to be some kind of criminal.”

 

Rick’s previously confident face, maybe a result of feeling he had nailed Ashe down to a T, fell as he wrestled with what Ashe was saying. His cocky smile faded, replaced by murmuring as his eyes zipped back and forth. “Wha...” he said, his voice cracking. “What d’you mean?”

“What the hell do you _think_ that means, Rick?! How much do I have to dumb this down for you?!”

“Whoa, Ashe, maybe we oughta-”

 _“Now ain’t the time, McCree,”_ Ashe growled, picking up her rifle. “You know Rick, you’ve been escaping _justice_ from my rules. Don’t think I ever forgot about what you did to that couple way back then.”

 

“The _fuck_ are you talking about?!” Rick demanded, his hand clasping the grip of his pistol, ready to draw. Before he could even think of drawing, perhaps even acting on a real or imaginary threat, Bob abandoned his duty of guarding the prisoners. One solid hit with the butt of his BAR sent Rick sprawling to the ground, coughing up blood as Ashe stepped over him, putting a boot on his back.

“Bob,” Ashe said, “do me a favor and kill those prisoners while I deal with Rick here.”

Nodding, Bob pulled out his Luger and set to his grim work. McCree rushed over to Ashe, trying to find a glimpse of who he had fallen in love with. Instead of Ashe, he found somebody different. This wasn’t her. This was not the same person anymore.

 

“Ashe, wait,” McCree pleaded over the sound of Rick groaning in pain. “What’re you doing?”

“I told you all back in Toledo,” she said, aiming the rifle at Rick’s head. “My gang, my rules. Rick here _fucked up_ and he knows it. What’d I tell you, Rick? What’d I fucking say?!”

In between short, stunted shouts of pain, Rick managed to eke out a single phrase. “Keep your word.”

 _“Keep your fucking word._ You told me you were sober, that your drinking wouldn’t be a problem, and then you go and rob folk for a bottle of shitty whiskey?!”

 

McCree put a hand on Ashe’s shoulder, drawing her rage-filled eyes away from the sights for a moment. He instantly regretted his decision – instead of focusing her rage on Rick, he could see the anger that had boiled over all these years start to redirect itself to him. “Ashe, listen, we ain’t gotta do this. We can-”

A shot rang out, and Ashe’s shoulders shook from the recoil of her rifle. With cold, glazed eyes, Ashe worked the bolt, ejecting a round as the metal and wood knocked against each other. Bob declared he had finished executing the Nationalist prisoners, heading over to _tut-tut_ over Rick’s body, quietly saying something in German.

 

McCree and Ashe continued their standoff, with neither one of them willing to cede or step off. These cold, dark eyes were not the ones he had fallen in love with. Where had the warm hazel eyes he remembered gone? Finally, McCree found his voice. “Why?”

“He broke my rules,” she replied, almost more as if she were saying they were out of milk.

“He didn’t have to die.”

Ashe paused, sighing. “Yes, he did. You don’t break my rules and get away with it.”

 

McCree took a step back, shaking his head. That sealed it. He had been thinking about it, saw the world closing in. It didn’t take a military genius to know that, eventually, the Republicans would see their demise, and losing the factories in the north didn’t help. Tonight was just another in the list of problems he now had with staying in Spain. He justified stealing food to resupply themselves back in ‘36 as a means to an end. Told himself Ashe’s brutality was a one-time thing. But she had told him that she wanted to pay back her debt, repay the privilege she had been born into.

 

So why did she start taking whatever she fancied? Took joy in hunting down Nationalists? Shit, she had just killed Rick right in front of him for nothing more than stealing a bottle of whiskey a few years ago. This wasn’t why he was ever here. The more he thought about it, the more he began to fear he would end up like Rick.

 

McCree resolved he would leave that night, finally get out of Spain.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a damn good thing there was still folk who just took cash and never asked questions.

 

Maybe a bit less so when Bob and Ashe were standing in front of him, weapons raised and pointed right at his chest.

 

“You’ve got one minute, _exactly_ one minute, to tell me why the hell you left,” Ashe said, her aim unflinching.

McCree took a long, deep breath, trying to figure out how he was supposed to reconcile this. He thought that there would have been a decent way to say this, but the words couldn’t leave his mouth, his tongue feeling like cotton. “This ain’t my fight, Ashe. Never was. You know that.”

“Then why not leave earlier?”

He scoffed, lighting up a cigar. This prompted Bob to tighten the grip on his BAR, narrowing his eyes at him. McCree was sure Bob was just looking for a reason to pull the trigger. “You know damn well why I didn’t leave earlier, Ashe. First it was because you wouldn’t let me. Then it was because I fell in love with you.”

 

He could see Ashe slam her eyes shut, probably fighting back tears as she took a shaky breath, swallowing as she readjusted her grip. “If you _love_ me, then why are you _leaving?”_

McCree paused, letting out a slow trail of smoke that crept lazily into the air. “You don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“You ain’t the same girl I fell for, Ashe. Whatever was here for me, it ain’t there anymore.”

This Mexican standoff couldn’t last forever. McCree sighed, heading for the boat. He knew Bob would never shoot him without Ashe’s word, and so far she hadn’t said anything.

 

“Do you think you can fucking walk away?!” Ashe screamed, jabbing her rifle at him as if she could reach him with the bayonet. “I should kill you where you stand, McCree! You gave me your word! You _don’t_ betray me and live!”

McCree stopped, keeping his head low. He couldn’t bear to look her in the eye anymore. “Then stop lollygaggin’ and shoot me.”

The wind picked up, causing a nearby boat to groan against the water as it rocked back and forth. Felt like the hundreds of standoffs he’d been in before. A minute passed, without anyone so much as even moving a muscle. Shaking his head, McCree started heading off to the boat again. Couldn’t waste any more time.

 

“Bob!” she yelled, her voice cracking. He could see her rifle shaking, her aim suddenly unsteady and weak.

“I’m sorry, Ashe,” he said, tipping his hat as he passed by her.

“Bob, d-…. don’t do a damn thing,” she finally muttered, right as McCree began to step up to the boat.

McCree tossed his cigar overboard as it began to float away, on the way to France. He sighed, feeling a tear roll down his cheek as Spain’s shores became distant. He wasn’t sure how he’d get back home after this. Maybe stow away on other boats. Lay low for a while, come back to America under a new name. Hell, London didn’t sound too bad.

 

He just wished everything with Ashe could have gone better. Maybe in another life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks to everyone who has read this fic, commented, and left kudos.
> 
> Special thanks to my friend Ejomatic primarily for giving me the germ of an idea for this fic in the first place. I don't think I could have properly made McCree's story without that backdrop. Thanks to Tiny for helping me out with anarchism and economic research, and another thanks to my friend S. for even more help with researching and getting into the mindset of anarchist characters. Huge, huge, huge thanks to Coyote for reading chapters in Book Club and providing the best goddamn Ashe voice I've ever heard. As per usual, thanks go out to everyone who's helped me with proofreading things, gave me feedback, and helped me make sure I wasn't doing something absurdly stupid.


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